


In Orbit

by OrionLady



Series: Figlio Mozzato [6]
Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Brotherhood, Canon-Typical Violence, Concussions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Families of Choice, Gen, Gratuitous movie references in life and death situations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Kidnapping, Mentors, Mystery, Parent-Child Relationship, Poisoning, Team as Family, Whoops made myself cry again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2020-12-16 22:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 93,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21043754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: Unfortunately, getting abducted is a not a new ball game for the SRU and members of Team One in particular.But these aren't your average street thugs. As the truth of this case comes to light, the search net - and their chances of finding Spike and Ed alive - fade out of Greg and the team's reach. They're running out of time.(Including but not limited to: a manhunt involving half of the Western world, vehicular assault, and nerdy socks. And a giraffe. Definitely a giraffe.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally cooked up in my head as, like, oh a nice little two parter. Ha. HA. 
> 
> The whole fic is complete and to date, it's the longest I've ever written, aside from my original work. Insanity. It definitely took on a life of its own. I'll update tags as I go - I just didn't want to spoil a few big reveals/twists at the end!
> 
> This series is ordered chronologically, not in written order. So it's set just after _Always_ but totally not necessary to read the others first.
> 
> Bon apetit!

'There are thieves, who rob us blind  
and kings, who kill us fine;  
but steady, the rights and the wrongs  
invade us, in innocent song.'

"Weight Of Us" ~ Sanders Bohlke 

Greg knows the _instant _something is wrong.

He’s out on the field with some rookies, doing shield drills. Wax bullets, ‘squibs,’ ping off metal and into the grass, wet from last night’s autumn shower. Teachers holler encouragement and correction in equal measure. Across the lawn, one of the lanky rookies who has struggled all week finally makes it over the climbing wall.

Without warning, all of that noise dies.

He freezes.

The sensation washes over him in one huge splash:

He knows something is wrong down to the very tug at his marrow. In the gullies of his bpm. Around every strained breath. His bullet scar aches with a sudden, sharp pain.

Greg can’t even put a hand on it to quell the fire, too statue-still trying to decipher the source of his body’s distress.

It’s a completely new experience. He’s used to a parent’s intuition of course, when he’d taken Dean to the park as a toddler. That radar flash in the back of his mind. The push to alertness, prompting him to scan the play structure and find Dean, usually clutching a scraped elbow with a wobbly bottom lip.

This is worlds away. Something of such abject difference that he’s dizzy.

In the time it takes for the shield drill to finish, not even thirty seconds, Greg knows.

He _knows_.

All the air escapes from his chest, a balloon stabbed and popped. His eyes widen, pupils huge, and he staggers back a half step.

Years later, they’ll laugh it off. Say it was subconscious cues—the student on his phone with a frown and hushed whisper to his friend. Sirens in the distance. That Greg can’t possibly have just…_known_.

But he does.

Greg knows it with unfailing certainty.

And his gut roars.

“Travers!” Greg just manages—barely—to get his quivering voice under control. “Take over, please.”

The older sergeant, dark cheeks lined in contrast with his white scruff of hair, jogs across the field to do a once-over of Greg. “You okay, chief? Something I should know about?”

“There’s only three drills left before they’re done tactical for the day,” Greg rambles, already shoving a file folder, his lesson plan, at the man. He can’t seem to get his hands to stop shaking.

_Soft_, he thinks. _I’ve gone soft_. _Lost my cool under pressure._

“Thanks for covering.”

By the time Travers catches all his papers, Greg is running off. Actually running, courtesy of what feels like a generous gallon of adrenaline. His leg screams but not nearly as loud as that sheer panic inside his body.

“And where are you going?” Travers hollers after Greg’s retreating form.

Greg stops.

He turns just enough to look Travers dead in the eye—

“Home.” 

* * *

_Fifteen minutes earlier…_

“_We’ll talk to the husband while you check it out_. _You guys need any help?_”

“No, but thank you kindly, Jules.” Ed swerves, lights on, and Spike steadies the laptop around a sharp turn. He squints at GPS mapping of the industrial district. “Spike, you find the hideout address?”

“If the PI was right,” Spike appeases. “He says our friendly neighbourhood gambling ring likes to run out of the tailor shop three blocks down.”

The firm set of Ed’s features doesn’t change, but lines around his eyes crinkle.

Spike does a double take when glancing up from the screen. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Sometimes Spike can get away with wheedling Ed. Sometimes not. He tries anyway. “Doesn’t look like nothing. Want to share with the class?”

Ed doesn’t shrug, but he juts his chin, which is basically the same thing for the man. “The tailor’s shop front made me think of suits.”

“O…kay.” Spike aims his squint at Ed, bracing himself on the window this time while they weave through five o’clock traffic. “Did that tackle yesterday mess with your head or…?”

Ed looks over at Spike. His mouth finally joins the amused expression before he slides on his aviators. They hide the playful spark in his eyes.

“Suits,” is all he says. “For fancy, memorable occasions.”

“Yes.” Spike wishes he could read Ed’s eyes, the most expressive part of him. Hates that Ed _knows_ this and manipulates it. “That’s what most people wear said suits for.”

“Mmm.”

The urge to badger Ed for baiting him like that flares inside Spike but he just shakes his head.

They’ve all been in a funny mood around him since Kyle Hurley. This isn’t the strangest conversation he’s had with a member of the team in the last few months. Not by a long shot.

At least they’ve stopped bringing him ‘a taste of home’ Italian food.

Spike shudders. Those had been dark days.

“Just up ahead,” he says.

With a nod, Ed squeals to a stop. He already has his rifle clipped to his vest, preferring to drive with it on, and Spike follows his lead. They park and Ed keeps watch, barrel up, while Spike retrieves the battering ram from the trunk.

“Ready?”

Spike flicks his head. “As ever. Let’s do it.”

“_Guys, we just got new intel_.”

Ed halts them with a raised fist. “Go ahead, Leah.”

“_She’s there to threaten the casino ‘house’ into paying up. Guess last week she played big and won big._”

“How big?” asks Ed.

There’s a stifled sound that Spike belatedly realizes is Jules trying not to snicker. He can’t wait to hear the whole story later.

“_Oh, around $35,000, give or take_,” Jules blurts out, apparently unable to wait for Leah’s sketched out explanation.

The two men exchange looks. Spike’s brows go up. “Let me get this straight: A bored housewife, who’s never gambled before this year, is going to walk in there with an antique pistol to demand her five figure winnings under the nose of her accountant husband? Right in front of security?”

Leah laughs this time. “_That’s about the half of it, yup_.”

“Gotta admit—and we can so rarely say it—this is a first.”

Ed’s lips twitch again. “At least you can put the husband’s mind at ease. She’s not cheating with another man.”

“She must be good,” says Spike. He loads the rifle clip quietly, shoving the heel of his palm down on it. “Wish I had a poker face like that.”

Ed puts a hand to his ear. “Thanks for the intel. Keep on him. Now that we have a motive, we might be able to talk her down.”

“_Anytime, gentlemen._” The smile is broadcasted in Jules’ voice. “_Good luck with your disgruntled gambler._”

Ed rolls his eyes but he’s grinning too. He leads them, both men ducked out of view of the windows, to the back door. The tailor’s shop front reads ‘CLOSED’ but dim lights shine from some back room.

“Spike, breach in three.”

Spike shifts ahead of Ed and faces the door, battering ram reared back. He looks to their team leader, who removes his aviators and tucks them away. It gives Spike a crystal clear shot of dilated blue eyes, matching the hard set of Ed’s mouth. 

That look is as familiar as Spike’s own name.

He stiffens, in preparation for the fingers ticking down on Ed’s right hand.

When they disappear, Spike slams the door with all the power he can muster. It’s a metal thing, graffiti-ed to high heaven. But the latch is a cheap stainless steel, braced with a piece of wood where the door frame has bent over time.

It crumbles like a matchstick when the ram top hits wood.

Ed hustles inside before Spike can even drop the ram. “SRU! Let’s see some hands!”

Five men around a rickety poker table already have their arms up. White faced. Quaking. The sight hits Spike as _wrong_ somehow but Ed doesn’t seem to notice.

“Where’d she go?”

“She?” asks the lead man, their game master.

Ed’s jaw works. “Mrs. Matheson. We know she came here to demand the thirty grand you owe her.”

“I paid Mrs. Matheson last week. I swear on my Niha’s grave.”

“Uh huh.” Ed’s voice is wry. “Sure you did.”

“Look,” says the game master, speaking to Spike for some reason. “We just gave all the cash we had. The man said two of his workers, dressed as cops, were going to come in here and kill us if we didn’t.”

Spike physically recoils at that. Why would someone have used them as a fear tactic? That doesn’t fit the profile. Nor did Mrs. Matheson know they were coming. So how…?

Ed jolts too, but he rocks forward instead of back. “Where?”

None of the men say a word. Ed glowers at each face in turn, chips hopping at unsteady elbows and knees against the table.

Then one, a young construction worker, points over his shoulder into the tailor’s shop.

“I’m on it!” Ed leaps clear across the table. “Spike, stay here and watch them! I want statements!”

“Copy that.” Spike realizes they might have a more pressing question. “When did this man threaten and rob you? Even an estimate time?”

The game master stares at Spike like he’s crazy. A fearful expression for Spike’s sanity. “Not even three minutes ago, bro.”

Spike’s head whips up. He gazes at Ed’s profile shrinking out of sight and then it disappears around a turn altogether.

“What did he look like?” Spike’s voice turns urgent. “Did he have an accent? Anything identifiable?”

One of the men appears to be a nurse, complete with blue scrubs, and he speaks up. “Brown hair. Tall. Mid thirties, maybe? No accent, but he really stuck out because of that tattoo on his neck.”

“Tattoo?” Spike perks up. He doesn’t bother writing any of this down, knowing the transcription will record it.

“Yeah,” says the game master. “I remember that too. A big bumble bee or something. Had a crown on its head.”

Spike’s voice turns dry. “A bumble bee? Really? You think that story is going to work on a cop?”

The nurse’s eyes bug. “I’m serious, man! It was some sort of crawling thing with stripes and—”

Though the man keeps talking, Spike tunes into a strange noise in his ear. It’s clearly Ed. Spike, however, has never heard that odd, exhaling wheeze before.

The sound is so foreign that he jolts again. “Ed?”

No response. Not even a grunt. The poker players look frightened too, and all conversation dies to listen in on Spike’s buzzing tone.

“Boss, please respond.”

A voice does slowly fade to life in Spike’s ear, distant enough that it’s impossible to make out words, but it’s not Ed. Spike’s pulse seizes.

“Ed, I’m coming!”

Spike leaves his post, which he feels bad about for a millisecond before the need to get to Ed commandeers everything else.

He too leaps across the table, spilling chips everywhere. He thinks he hears a “good luck!” from one of their gamblers but Spike can barely process anything over the sound of his own heartbeat.

The tailor shop is empty. So is the storeroom.

Spike goes through the front door, left unlocked. Huh.

Then he’s back in the alleyway. Spike hears a clanking sound, one that halts his movements immediately.

That—and the man standing over Ed’s body with a bloody pipe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hairs stand up on the back of Spike’s wrists.
> 
> He knows this feeling like an intimate lover, the sensation right before Ed kills a subject. Right before that car runs a red light and pays for it. Right before someone trips. Those brief, giddy micro seconds before the man high on a bridge changes his mind and jumps.
> 
> Pain explodes across the right side of Spike’s face.

'You are not hopeless  
Though you have been broken,  
Your innocence stolen.'

"Rescue" ~ Lauren Daigle 

Ed is facedown on the cracked pavement, a head wound across the back of his skull that Spike can see even from fifteen feet away.

The man staring down at Ed drops the pipe and it rolls, a terrible, jaunty sound that makes Spike unexpectedly nauseous.

Next, the man removes Ed’s earpiece and stomps on the receiver—it shrills across their channel—while his other hand roots around for all of Ed’s guns and weapons. The vest goes too. They are quickly tossed in the dumpster.

Another man, this one sporting a dirty blond ponytail, backs a blue paint company van into the alley. He parks, jogs over, and together they reach for Ed—

“Hey!” It is this, of all things, that breaks Spike’s shocked stupor. “SRU! Get away from him!”

Faster than Spike’s ever seen, Ponytail whips out a Sig and aims it at Ed’s back.

“Finally,” says the brunette. When he turns to face Spike head on, what do you know—there really _is_ a bee tattoo on his neck. Slimmer, like a hornet or wasp. “There’s our other guest.”

“Put it down,” Spike barks. “Guns on the ground! Now!”

“Or what?” the brunette taunts. “You’ll shoot me? No, I don’t think so. I might have a muscle spasm when I fall and shoot your friend.”

Spike can’t bear to lower his rifle, even with the other man’s gun aimed at Ed’s neck. It’s too blasphemous, too weak-kneed of an action, even if Spike knows it to be the only option here.

He watches, helpless, as they load Ed in through the double doors of the van. They’re haphazard with his limbs, sliding them inside with only a care for his pale and crimson head. Soon even that is gone.

This disappearance of the stalwart man, out of sight, sends a jitter through Spike’s hands.

“Please.” He’s begging. He’d never do it if Ed were conscious to hear. “Please, take me instead.”

“_Spike?_” Winnie’s voice comes through at last. “_You’ve been quiet on this channel. What’s going on? Do you have your squelch buttons on?_”

The brunette rounds on Spike. He looks surprised and amused all at once. “But of course. That’s the plan, officer.”

And Spike finds himself shunted forward by the butt end of Ponytail’s rifle, where it digs into his back. They strip him of his gear and weapons in record time, tossing those in the dumpster too.

“_Spike? Are you guys—_”

Winnie’s voice cuts off, and Spike’s hope with it. He feels naked without his earpiece.

There’s no care to keep anything or sort through it or wipe fingerprints.

In fact, the two men seem in a desperate hurry, always watching the businesses on either side and eyeing the mouth of the alley with a certain touch of nervousness.

Despite this, they don’t act frazzled or like they’re making this up as they go. There’s a determination to every movement, an efficiency that suggests premeditation.

With his hands up, Spike takes advantage of their hustling to catalogue the van, its license plate number and any defining marks. There are none, other than the paint brush logo and a tiny dent on the rear bumper.

Roughly the same height, both men are taller than Spike, maybe even taller than Ed. Spike feels that keenly when he’s shoved forward again.

He barely catches his footing, adjusting his weight to the lack of gear, vest, wearing only his sweater, pants, and boots.

“In you go,” Ponytail growls.

Spike’s mouth twists, angry and fed up. “I thought you said you’d let him go if I came. Take me, shoot me, whatever. But you’re leaving him.”

Hairs stand up on the back of Spike’s wrists.

He knows this feeling like an intimate lover, the sensation right before Ed kills a subject. Right before that car runs a red light and pays for it. Right before someone trips. Those brief, giddy micro seconds before the man high on a bridge changes his mind and jumps.

Pain explodes across the right side of Spike’s face. His whole torso snaps to the side.

Catching himself on the open lip of the back doors, Spike squints up at the brunette—now holding Spike’s own rifle, the pommel slick with blood.

The man’s voice comes out oh so calm. “Did that sound like a request?”

Spike clutches at his face. Oddly, he notices that his hand landed next to Ed’s ear, where he’s been set on his back in the cramped space. Protocol flits, an errant bird, through Spike’s mind.

He swats it away and follows his gut instead of his training, knowing any member of their family would do the same.

_I’m sorry, Ed. I can’t leave you._

So in he climbs. 

No partition divides the seats from the empty, carpeted back section of the van, but when the two men close the doors and lock Spike in, they set their guns on the arm rest.

A clear message about what will happen if Spike tries anything.

They don’t talk to each other, these strange kidnappers, save for an exchanged nod when Ponytail starts up the van and pulls out.

Spike ignores them in favour of turning Ed on his side, in the recovery position.

“Oh Ed,” he murmurs out loud this time, “I’m so sorry.”

The head wound isn’t deep, but it’s bleeding more than it should. Spike can’t tell if it needs stitches or not, hovering right in that grey area where he’d normally hand someone off to an EMT. Another thorn of helplessness joins the first.

Spike still has a gauze pack in his breast pocket. He tears it open with his teeth and presses it tight to the back of Ed’s skull.

The brunette, or Tattoo, as Spike has dubbed him in his mind, keeps an eye on them. Thankfully, he doesn’t stop what Spike’s doing.

With his right hand cradling the back of Ed’s head, Spike’s left hovers for a brief moment before resting fully on Ed’s chest. It’s broad under his palm and the boxer’s fist of Ed’s heart punches away at Spike’s skin until he breathes easier.

Ed’s still fighting in there. Spike isn’t going to lose him.

_Not today. Not on my watch._

The absurdity of that hits a second later and Spike almost laughs. No gun, no earpiece, no backup. He knows the team will be out looking for them, on alert, but they won’t even know where to look. There were no security cameras in the alley.

What can he possibly do now?

_Negotiate_, he hears Greg in his mind. _Build a connection._

Worrying at the material of Ed’s range jacket, Spike wonders what Ed might say in this situation, let alone Greg.

“If…if you tell me why you’re doing this…” Spike wets his lips, tasting the tang of blood where it drips onto his hands and Ed’s chest. “I can help.”

“Don’t worry.” Tattoo doesn’t even look at him. “You already are.”

Like Ed in the truck just minutes ago, Spike pushes his luck. “Is this about money? You already stole from those players back there. SRU won’t ransom for their officers back.”

The men say nothing, though Ponytail smiles in the rear view mirror. At the sight, Spike is well and truly scared for the first time in this whole ordeal.

His heart races faster. He’s so tired of being held hostage; he’s lost count of the number of times a subject has grabbed him.

Spike knows this latest kidnapping isn’t his fault. It still doesn’t stop him from feeling inadequate.

“Revenge, then?” he says, thinking of Marcus Harper. Spike levers higher on his knees. “Is that what you want?”

Tattoo turns. He looks at Spike without blinking, his eyes so brown they are almost black. “What I want, officer…is _you_.”

Spike leans back. Ponytail isn’t smiling anymore. Tattoo gazes so intently at Spike that he wonders if they’ll shoot him right then and there.

Then Tattoo’s eyes shift. He gestures with a flick of his head like Sam does all the time. “You and your friend.”

Spike refuses to glance down at Ed, for reasons he can’t pin down. It is imperative that he keeps the two men in his sights. Of that he is suddenly sure.

However, Spike doesn’t say another word. That one exchange is enough to mull on, to keep Spike’s head in a confused loop.

He _hates_ feeling in the dark.

This kidnapping doesn’t make a lot of strategic sense, really. They stole a hefty amount from the gamblers, and they clearly have no intent to ransom either man. Not revenge related or Spike has a feeling they’d be dead already.

One thing Spike knows for sure: if it was him unconscious and Ed keeping a protective stance over his body, Ed’s plan would be to overpower the men or steal a gun and shoot out a tire from inside. They covered a real life case of that, during their Academy studies.

Sam would play along and then beat the crap out of them when they stopped moving.

Greg would keep negotiating, talk about his kids and all the other times he’s been kidnapped or held at gunpoint.

Jules would sass them or flirt, whichever gets the most response. Keep their mouths open and their guard down.

Wordy would make a jump for it by ramming the back doors. Run first, figure it out later.

Spike…

_What would I do?_

None of these tactics appeal to him, no matter how much sense they make. All of these options are in the playbook, in that they have been used successfully before.

Spike’s stomach turns at the thought of touching the guns, so close to Ponytail’s elbow. Of Ed getting hit again, more blood.

A few hours pass, long enough for Spike to become mutely frantic over Ed’s lack of response and how the wound still bleeds, though sluggish and clotting away.

They fly over a bump in the road—heading outside city limits now, potholes and all—forcing Spike to brace his right foot on the wall, one hand to stabilize Ed and the other on the opposite wall. Afresh, he is unnerved to see Ed so ragdoll. Eyes closed. Skin a foggy grey.

Spike releases his taught limbs, when the road smooths, to touch Ed again. Not for any medical reason, but for the selfish need to feel less alone. He strokes Ed’s bald forehead, then his arm.

What would Spike do?

_Something nerdy and un-macho and techno-babbled that boss would never—_

Dumbfounded, Spike stares straight ahead at the center console.

At a cellphone, hooked to the cigarette lighter by some sort of charger.

It’s an awful thing, a flip phone probably older than Dean. Gawky, giant buttons and barely any screen. No GPS or camera either, he guesses. Where on earth did they find an adapter for the charger…?

Spike shakes that rabbit trail away and focuses on the fact it’s lit up. A working cellphone—right there.

He can hardly believe it.

All that stands in his way is an assault rifle, Sig, and two hostile men. Ha. Easy peasy.

Inspiration comes out of his mouth faster than he can censor: “Isn’t your gas gauge getting a little low?”

Right on cue, both men crane around to peer at it. Tattoo makes a face. “He’s right. You didn’t remember to fill up?”

Ponytail leans back with a huff, forcing Tattoo to follow, elbow between the guns on the arm rest. Cellphone visible in the narrow window between the man’s shoulder and neck.

“I thought that was your job.”

Tattoo grits his teeth. “We don’t have time for this.”

“No argument there. This is cottage country anyways, so they don’t get as many people at the tail end of the season. We’ll find a tiny gas station, one without cameras.”

“Good luck with tha—”

Spike dashes across before he can stop himself or, worse yet, over think it. He slams Tattoo’s head against the console and grabs the cellphone all in one go. The blow isn’t even enough to really bruise, but it throws Tattoo off balance.

A pointy elbow straight to the sternum winds Spike so that he sees stars. In his fall backwards, he tucks the cellphone underneath Ed.

Tattoo glares at Spike around a red mark swelling along his eyebrow. “All that for nothing.”

He places the barrel of the Sig straight between Ed’s closed eyes. Spike swallows, feeling an ache in the back of his throat.

This man isn’t fooled for a second. He’s figured out the game in a blink: that to threaten Spike is useless.

But he will do virtually anything to keep Ed alive.

“Is his life worth so little to you?” Tattoo hisses.

Night is falling outside. It throws Tattoo in eerie relief whenever they pass a streetlight, then back to silhouettes when in a dark patch. His hand seems to glow around the trigger.

“No, please.” Spike’s brow scrunches, agonized. “Don’t hurt him. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Tattoo bares his teeth, expression lacking any fire. All cold lines and glacier eyes. He pulls back the Sig hammer, loading it in a harsh snap. Ponytail reaches for something in his pocket.

Spike’s eyes widen. “No—!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is slow approaching his son, to both his and the team’s surprise. For inside Dean’s eyes is a lesser version of the pain in Greg’s chest, wrapped boa constrictor style around his ribs enough to crack.
> 
> At the sight of his youngest, it _squeezes_.
> 
> Greg forgets to breathe for a cruxed second.

'It looks like empathy  
To understand all sides,  
But I’m just trying to find myself  
Through someone else’s eyes.'

"Nine" ~ Sleeping at Last

“Where is he?”

Greg is normally a seltzer tablet on the righteous, fiery hell storm of this little family. He’s the one playing peacemaker and binding up old wounds. He’s the one they come to when the world is fraught and _too loud_ and please, Greg, can’t you make it better?

He does, usually.

Not today.

Today, Greg marches into the SRU headquarters without so much as a hello to anyone in the hallway. Today his hands are shaking and he’s frowning enough to scare an old lady.

His eyes burn through the rookies passing on the elevator. Shivering with rage, the scandal of something happening to them when he isn’t present to mediate it.

The scene when he arrives at the barn does absolutely nothing for his out of control blood pressure. 

Jules has an arm around Winnie, whose bottom lip quivers dangerously. She’s out from behind the dispatcher desk, and Peter has taken her place. He casts the pair furtive, worried looks.

Sam is on the phone with someone, Holleran by the sounds of it. He spies Greg immediately but this Sam Braddock is all business and he just keeps pacing. Tucked in the nosebleed section of his eyes, there’s a scorching panic. But he can’t indulge that yet. Greg is in awe of how expertly he shoves it back.

He’s in jeans and a hoodie, sleep rumpled. Though off shift, he clearly rushed to be here.

The other rookies of the team, officers Leslie and Thatcher, sort through van models, tire tracks, in the briefing room. They’re huge, older men, not really rookies at all. They know what to do without being ordered, though they sense the emotional upheaval of their teammates and whisper to each other.

It’s too soon after Kyle Hurley. Greg can feel it like acid in the room. It’s too soon and they’re not ready. There’s something irreverent about how they’ve lost Spike again, right under their noses.

“Where is he?” Greg barks again. “Who else was…?”

“Ed and Spike,” Peter reports. “They’re gone.”

“Gone, _gone_, that doesn’t mean anything.” Greg circles his free hand, then his cane for good measure.

“That’s just it, boss.” Jules sniffs. “They drove out to a suspicious gun call and their earpieces went silent. When we got there, they’d vanished.”

“Not exactly.” Wordy darts into view, faster than Greg is prepared for with that matching cane he has now. His eyes dart to Winnie and then he angles to keep a file folder out of her view. “There were no security cameras in the alley or streets, but we know they were taken. CSU rushed the tests and gave us a preliminary report.”

“Isn’t it your day off?” Jules asks.

Wordy levels her with a look and she nods, one eye brow quirked. “Yeah, never mind.”

Sam puts a hand over the receiver and peers over Wordy’s shoulder. So does Peter.

Leah is last to enter and she reads the file too. A soft, prayer-like epithet falls from her lips and she closes her eyes.

Greg is still trying to wrap his head around this. “Both? This blood is…?”

“Most of it’s Ed’s,” Wordy whispers. “But there’s some of Spike’s near the tire tracks.”

Silence grips them all for a beat. Winnie lets out a breath, a bubble of something heavy, leaden, and suffocating. Sam’s low voice is the only other sound.

“Why grab them?” Jules laments. “It was a routine gun call. A disgruntled housewife.”

“About that…” Leah sighs, never a good sign. “I just got off the phone with uniforms. The man, Mr. Matheson, was an imposter. The _real _Mathesons took her winnings and have been on vacation in the Bahamas for the last three days. He’s gone, disappeared as soon as we did.”

Greg’s head spins. None of this makes any sense; none of it processes past his mental Klaxon. “That’s an elaborate ruse, posing in someone’s empty house, just to get two officers alone in a quiet part of town.”

“Talk about a gamble,” says Jules. “Two _highly trained_ officers. These aren’t traffic cops, someone they can take by surprise.”

Peter’s face is pinched. “But they did.”

“There’s been no gang chatter.” Wordy shrugs. “Ransom, maybe? They’ll call us with an exorbitant number to pay?”

Sam hangs up with an excited murmur of thanks and holds the phone aloft to catch Greg’s attention. “CSU finished fingerprint analysis.”

“And?” Wordy’s face lights up.

“Four sets: Ed and Spike, obviously, and a career criminal named Rook Delancy.”

Jules scowls. “There’s a name.”

Peter taps away and a photo pings on Sam’s phone. They huddle around it, eyeing the blond ponytail and hard grey eyes with disdain. “Says here he’s known mainly for racketeering schemes and assault. A few kidnappings, but mostly of other criminals. This is definitely above his usual resume.”

Greg glances at Sam. “You said four prints. Who’s the other?”

“That’s just it,” Peter chimes in. Everyone turns from the group huddle to look at him. “This fourth set—most likely a man’s, judging by the large size—isn’t in our system at all.”

“Contact CSIS,” says Greg, before he can stop himself. “Maybe the feds know him.”

Peter nods. “On it.”

The slip up hits Greg immediately. No longer team leader, yet here he is giving orders. In Ed’s absence, _Jules _is team leader.

He flushes, ever so slightly, but the others don’t say a word. In fact, Jules looks a little relieved.

Leah smiles too and then calls out to Leslie, “Any luck on a make and model for the vehicle?”

“Not yet!”

She swears again. “We need to find the fake husband. He’s in on this plan too.”

She jogs off to find a workstation. So does Wordy, with promises to come back, once they find Delancy. Peter types madly away, muttering about traffic cameras in the area. Or lack thereof. Probably why Delancy and his partner chose this spot in the first place.

“Boss…” Jules cants her head. “How did you know to come here? Nobody called you. We just found out before you arrived.”

Greg feels an implosion in his chest, a private sort of sensation. How can he explain something that has no scientific explanation? Is it even possible to describe the tugging he feels for those he loves? That finely tuned radar system for his eldest son?

“I…” He circles a hand again, this time a lost motion. “I just…er, sensed that maybe—”

“Dad! Sorry I’m late! What’s going on?”

For all the SRU officers’ training, expertise, and unshakable judgement under extreme pressure: the moment a hundred and fifty pounds of young man bound into the room, dressed in Academy issue sweats and tac belt, they are helpless to do little more than stare at him. Like he’s an apparition poofing in for afternoon tea.

Sam finds his voice first. “_Dean_? What are you doing here? Greg, did you text him?”

“No.” Dean answers this, looking at the adults like they’re the crazy ones. “This horrible feeling came over me, like, thirty minutes ago. Something felt wrong. Dad wasn’t in class so I came here.”

Jules cracks her first smile and directs a wry tone at Greg. “Seems to be going around.”

Greg is slow approaching his son, to both his and the team’s surprise. For inside Dean’s eyes is a lesser version of the pain in Greg’s chest, wrapped boa constrictor style around his ribs enough to crack.

At the sight of his youngest, it _squeezes_.

Greg forgets to breathe for a cruxed second. All his fears hurricane around their ears, how Ed was injured and if they’re scared, the mental image of a gun in Spike’s face. 

Then Dean shortens the gap between them and falls into his father’s arms. It’s a demonstrative gesture, especially in front of everyone, but neither cares. Greg clutches his son close while Jules pats his back and Sam rumbles something fond in his throat.

“But what about the squelch button?”

It’s Winnie’s first voiced question, tear stains shiny on her cheeks.

Greg pulls away to squint at her. “Squelch button?”

“Spike didn’t respond,” Winnie insists. “I tried to contact him but their radios were silent.”

Sam frowns. “That doesn’t sound like them. They know better, especially when pursuing a subject.”

“I think I can answer that.”

The team whips around at the new voice, only to see a construction worker with his hands up. Greg thinks that unnecessary until Sam reaches for his sidearm. His face is stony.

They’re all a little defensive.

Greg approaches. “And who are you?”

“Lucky Dan.” He takes down his hands to wring them together. Pale, swallowing a lot. He’s sweating, coveralls damp under the arms. “Or, uh, Dan Fellows.”

They stare at him.

Greg puts it together first. “You’re one of the poker players.”

“The others bailed,” says Dan. Then his eyes meet Greg’s head on, earnest and fretting. Maybe a touch guilty. “I was going to as well…but there was something about those kid’s eyes, when he heard his partner in trouble. It felt wrong to leave. Figures, I develop a conscience when it’s least convenient.”

Jules chokes out a whisper. “Oh, Spike.”

Greg, however, feels the first real spark of hope. He shakes Dan’s hand, to the man’s visible confusion.

His lips lift in a barely-there grin. “Spike has that effect on people.”

“Are-are you going to arrest me?” Dan asks.

Greg opens his mouth but Dan beats him to it, rambling.

“Because I know the gambling club is illegal. I’m really just trying to win enough to buy my wife a new wedding ring because hers went down the garbage disposal—man those things are powerful. But it’s the bee man you should be worried about. He robbed us blind.”

There’s a lot to unpack in that. Far more than he can in the ten seconds it took to spill all that out.

Greg’s head is still spinning somewhere around illegal gambling clubs and their citation in court—

He halts. “Wait. Bee man?” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed lights up in a crackle of static charge, fury in enough bucketfuls to launch him straight off the tarp and onto his knees.
> 
> He doesn’t get much farther than that, but his voice is inky black, dangerous. “_Get your hands off him_.”

'Hanging by a thread,  
Waiting for a hand to pull me up,  
Falling down instead—  
Nowhere left to land.'

"Heartbeats" ~ Aron Wright 

Ed’s first return to consciousness is rude and unforgiving. Volume up far too high.

It’s giving him a headache, a pounding one all over his head.

His instinctive emotion is frustration, that Clark forgot to turn his music down. _Again_. If he keeps this up, it’ll wake Izzy from her afternoon nap.

How many times does Ed have to tell him before it sticks? He thought these days were done once Clark outgrew puberty and teenage shenanigans, tame as they are.

But that can’t be right…Clark is at university, living in the dorms.

There’s so much _noise_.

Ed’s second emotion is confusion. This doesn’t sound like music. And why is it so hard to open his eyes?

The sound takes far, far too long for his brain to identify.

_Screaming. Someone is screaming_.

Shouting too, angry barks mixed into the hysteria.

See! This is why Clark isn’t allowed to play loud music!

Ed preps himself to calm Izzy down, maybe bounce her while doing that silly voice she loves so much.

It’s awfully low pitched screaming for a toddler…

And there’s an element of unsteadiness, like someone is crying himself hoarse at the same time.

Ed hopes it’s not himself screaming. He hasn’t wept in front of the whole team in years and he’d like to keep it that way.

Maybe it’s old fashioned, a notion planted in his head from years of his ‘frontier’ attitude father, but Ed doesn’t like giving his team even the slightest wiggle room for doubt, that they can’t trust him. He wants them to look at him and see dependability, strength.

_Come on, Ed. Open your eyes. Someone needs you._

He tries for what feels like an eternity before they do, maybe a third of the way open.

Even with the night sky, the headlights’ glare stabs behind his eyeballs, straight into the melee of his throbbing skull. He closes them again, breathing through the agony. It’s unbearable. He wants desperately to vomit.

This pain is quickly forgotten when Ed wrangles his lids back again and looks to the side.

Straight at Spike.

Or…_up_ at Spike.

Ed clues in to the fact he’s being dragged inside a building on a blue tarp. Rough, but not careless.

They go over a bump that clips Ed right in the tailbone. Ed wants to crane back and see who’s manhandling the tarp, but he can barely move.

And Spike is…

Spike is inside the back of a van. Blindfolded with a piece of dirty black rag.

He’s fighting for all he’s worth against a man larger than him, both arms wrapped around Spike and trying to pry his hands from either side of the door frame. To pull him back inside.

He flails a leg and misses.

“Shut up!” Both men holler at Spike’s caterwauling, along with some unsavoury words. 

“No, please. _NO_!” A tear drips off the end of Spike’s nose, skin taut. Blood coats his lips, chin, and neck. “Where are you taking him?”

Ed can only stare at this drama. His limbs won’t cooperate. Not to mention his head is a hundred pound bowling ball where it leans back against the tarp, unable to lift.

“No!” Spike screams again. “Don’t hurt him!”

The man, the one with an arm around Spike’s middle, has a bruise over his eye and Ed’s pride sings, that Spike clearly got a hit in.

The man yanks Spike’s head back by a fistful of hair.

Spike coughs a pained sound and arches for air. The man growls, pleased, then yanks Spike’s head the other way.

Blinding, blistering _rage_ incinerates Ed’s veins.

For whatever reason, this petty cruelty is the thing that reboots Ed’s brain. He lights up in a crackle of static charge, fury in enough bucketfuls to launch him straight off the tarp and onto his knees.

He doesn’t get much farther than that, but his voice is inky black, dangerous. “_Get your hands off him_.”

The man doesn’t. He’s surprised enough, however, to let go of Spike’s hair.

The tech’s head lobs forward suddenly, his white knuckles easing around the doorframe.

Spike sobs, grated after shredding his vocal chords. It’s a brutal sound, one that makes the inside of Ed’s arms itch to touch him, to comfort. “Ed? Is that you?”

Ed collapses onto his hands. “Spike, what…?”

Spike’s eyes go huge. Ed can see it even underneath the blindfold.

He pleads with someone Ed hears over his shoulder. “No, _no_. You don’t have to do this! Is this punishment? Because I won’t try it again, I swear. Take me instead!”

Paw-like hands lift Ed underneath the arms and drag him backwards. He struggles weakly, the world in a tailspin.

He’s thrown back onto the tarp. The back of his head brushes against the fabric. 

It’s too much.

One minute Ed is in paroxysms because he can’t physically get to Spike. The next a coolant washes through his limbs, the black shroud of nothing.

“Please!” Spike’s breathing hitches, over and over again. “_Ed_!”

_I’m sorry, Spike._

Ed’s out before they make it through the door.

* * *

They don’t tie Spike’s hands. Don’t have to.

While Ponytail disappears with Ed, Spike is left in the back. Tattoo drives them for a long time down the road. They put the blindfold on after the cellphone incident, and even then Spike hadn’t recognized where they are. He wishes he knew what time of day or night it is.

Spike doesn’t fight them anymore.

He slumps against the side of the truck and lets his head hang.

He failed Ed: a stopped vehicle, two distracted men, and Spike couldn’t even get Ed to safety.

They’d been prepared—they grabbed Spike before even moving Ed. He’ll never forget the cherry bomb of terror when they tore Spike’s grip off Ed’s sweater, when he’d lost contact with his team leader.

Everything feels methodical, planned. These men aren’t flying by the seat of their pants at all.

_But I am_.

Spike doesn’t like that.

He’s trained his whole life to have an understanding of every situation, every technology. Be one step ahead.

Humans though…humans are unpredictable. You can’t program a person like a computer, no matter how hard his father tried. There’s no failsafe switch for the human heart.

There’s no textbook for this scenario either. Spike knows he’s flying blind, literally and metaphorically.

Worst of all, they found the cellphone when taking Ed. Spike got another sucker punch for that infraction, though this time he feels he deserves it, for the rookie mistake of getting caught.

“Here we are.”

Tattoo unlocks the back doors. Spike feels a large hand under his elbow and rides it while hopping to the ground, wary of the cold barrel digging into his back.

“Get walking, officer.”

Spike wants to argue that one. He can’t even see!

But Tattoo doesn’t wait. A rough push to Spike’s shoulder and he trips, thankful that at least the grass feels even under his boots.

The neutral chill of a September night is replaced with stale, dry air when Spike is instructed to step over the threshold of a door. His steps echo, a bit muffled.

Spike’s scalp buzzes at the top, an ingrained, subliminal reaction to the fact he’s probably somewhere with a high ceiling.

“Look, man,” Spike reasons, “can’t I just take the blindfold off? It’ll be easier.”

Tattoo hums a shrewd sound. “That would be a no. Not yet, anyway. You’re lucky my orders are to leave you as able bodied as possible or you might not even have your eyes. _Sir_.”

Orders. Spike mentally adds that to the list. These men are working for someone else.

Spike is walked a long way through a cement floored area. If he had to guess—probably a factory or auto body shop. Warehouse, maybe?

That sounds sufficiently villainous. It’s always a warehouse in the comic books.

Then Tattoo tugs on the back of Spike’s sweater. It chafes at his throat and he stops. An ominous creaking starts up, a door that hasn’t seen oil in a long time.

_Oh no._

Spike knows what’s coming next, but he still flinches when Tattoo prods him down the first two stairs.

“Enjoy your stay, officer.”

And the door to his new abode slams shut with a deafening crash.

Contrary to what even he expects, Spike doesn’t move right away.

Squatted on the wooden stair, Spike just breathes. He listens to his own puff-puff-puff panting, relieved to feel that his nose has stopped bleeding, and replays the sound of Ed’s voice, the first he’s heard in hours.

And the last, apparently.

This fact explodes over Spike’s consciousness with a delayed build up, messy and leaving his limbs trembling:

_They split us up, probably to weaken our chances of escape. Ed is miles away._

Ed is _miles_ away.

Spike could escape now in a blaze of glory and still probably never find him. Tattoo drove for almost thirty minutes before getting to this secondary location.

There’d been little traffic passing on the road, no stoplights or braking. Barely any turns. Rough road just after they blindfolded him.

Some of the engine noises had sounded funny. Spike even wondered if he heard a horse passing at one point.

_That can’t be right. I’m hallucinating._

He’s read of this happening, when a person's senses are deprived.

All at once, Spike’s unsteady hands scramble for the back of the blindfold. He fights with it, making it harder in his panic, before whipping it off his head. He throws it down the stairs.

Blinking slowly a few times, Spike’s eyes adjust to the dim interior of a teeny tiny basement storeroom. 

The stairs lead to a completely empty floor, four feet square.

Spike doesn’t like having his back to the door. He stands and carefully makes his way down, grateful for a dirty, frosted window near the top of the stairs that lets in minimal light.

After relieving himself in a corner bucket, Spike curls up against the opposite corner, facing the stairs. Forehead to his knees.

Here, in this cold, hard space, Spike allows himself to give in to the shakes, just for a few minutes.

To the outside eye, Spike might simply be cold, shivering. Especially in a place like this.

Spike however, doesn’t feel cold at all, despite his chattering teeth. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t sob like he did at the primal fear of Ed being taken away.

He just sits there and trembles, his body curled up as small as he can get it. Knees folded so tightly they ache.

And this…_this_ is familiar.

Twisted as it is, Spike takes comfort in the familiarity of being alone, in a dark space. If he closes his eyes and just pretends he’s in his childhood closet, he has a mental headspace for that. He can compartmentalize it.

_The team would be ashamed of you._

Spike gasps softly into his knees. It’s an intrusive thought, spawned from bad memory associations.

“’S not true,” he says to it, out loud. “Go away.”

And it does. The thought flits away with its tail between its legs.

Spike, however, knows he’s in for a long battle.

Whether he’s here for an hour or twenty four, there’s more where that thought came from. He’s got a lifelong file folder of insecure thoughts, however conquered, to choose from.

This too, Spike knows how to fight. Every time this happened to him as a boy, the best remedy was to do something productive, get his hands moving.

“Ed. Just hang on.” He stands to his knees, teeth grit. “I’m getting us out of here.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's gut sinks like a load of bricks, the impossibility of how big this net just became. “Please tell me they didn’t take Spike and Ed where I think they did.”
> 
> Jules is already on her cell, calling a number they haven’t had to use in a very long time. Years.

'Oh, every time is so far,  
Every time is so far  
To get back to where you are.'

"All This Time" ~ OneRepublic

“Are you sure?”

Wordy scratches his head. He types Dan’s profile of the attacker again, taken from his statement, eyeing the four people pressed together over his shoulder. “I’m telling you, Greg. There are no current Ontario gangs who use bee or wasp tattoos for branding purposes.”

“What about former gangs?” Sam suggests. “Ones we’ve successfully put an end to? Could be a resurgence.”

Wordy tries that too. Leans back to a chorus of frustrated sounds. “Nope.”

“So it’s not gang related.” Jules gestures to the screen. “This is obviously a new player, someone who just happens to have a bee tattoo.”

Greg has another idea. “Try prison records. Tattoos are often catalogued there in case convicts escape and need to be identified.”

Everyone holds their breath while Wordy types it in, even Dan. He’s oddly invested in this case now. He doesn’t seem too worried that Wordy will technically have to book him for illegal gambling and pass him off to Vice. Wordy assured him they’d put a good word in to reduce his sentence.

“Sorry, guys. There’s a prisoner here with a mantis tattoo, tons of spider ones too. No bee, though.”

“For a grand total of, wait for it…” Dan does a flare with his hands. “Nothing. My bee tip was completely unhelpful.”

Greg makes a ‘maybe so, maybe not’ motion with his head. “It was more helpful than your description of every white man in his mid thirties.”

“Hear, hear,” Wordy mutters.

Sam sighs. “Time to start calling tattoo parlours, I guess. Best place to start.”

“No, it’s not!” Jules practically bristles, but there’s something else in her expression too, something dark. “Ed is bleeding out from a gunshot wound and who knows what else when it comes to Spike—and we’re just sitting here, typing!”

The group stares at her. Though Jules is a force to be reckoned with, she is the epitome of controlled fire, grated and secure for whenever it’s needed.

This is…this is an _outburst_. Greg hasn’t seen one of these in years.

The professional veneer coating all of them begins to crack. Sam visibly riles himself back together, but Wordy’s eyes grow even more open, not only vulnerable but asking that Jules witness it.

“Jules,” he says, quiet. “Ed wasn’t shot.”

Her voice loses some of its heat, only to reveal the fear lingering underneath. “You don’t know that. Just because we didn’t find a casing…”

“If we didn’t find a bullet, that means it would still be in his body.”

Jules puffs out a noisy breath. “Which means there would a ton more blood. Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“It’s Spike and Ed,” says Wordy with a kind smile. “We get it.”

“No, you don’t.” Jules’ nostrils widen with a harsh breath and her neck is red. “We keep failing them, again and again.”

“I read the transcription.” Sam ducks his head to catch his wife’s eye. “You didn’t fail them. You offered help and Ed turned it down. That was his call. It was Spike’s call to ignore orders and run after him.”

_And hit his squelch button in the process._ Greg still isn’t over that one. Dan saw Spike’s hip hit the table in its slide by, pressing the button and silencing their radio contact.

“We all would have done the same thing, especially if Spike heard Ed in distress.” Jules shakes her head. “I need a minute.”

With that, she’s gone.

The four men shift uncomfortably. Sam’s eyes follow his wife in her silent march out the door, Wordy’s gaze is far off somewhere in the imaginary physical space of his friends, and Dan glances unsurely between them all. He’s wise enough not to speak.

Wordy blinks, then lifts a brow at Greg.

He waves the man off. “Nah, I got her. Keep trying to find our mystery insect man. Sam, you’re technically second-in-charge of this investigation. Leah’s working on the kidnappers’ vehicle—maybe you could run our third mystery man, the con artist, through the database?”

Sam nods, but he doesn’t move right away. “Boss?”

The way Sam says it is small, the sound of the early days. It’s a dusty memento, taken down off the shelf of their relationship like a child’s long-lost but still beloved stuffed animal.

Greg’s heart gives a leap, a quick one-two that has him curbing the urge to reach up and rub his chest.

“Yeah, Sam?”

“I promised Spike, the day we booked Kyle Hurley, that he’d never have to feel scared in that way again.”

Wordy’s fingers still over the keyboard. Greg’s heart bottoms out, a roller coaster of motionlessness that leaves him breathless.

A muscle ripples in Sam’s jaw. He whispers, “I _promised_.”

Samuel Braddock, all jock with a smart head on his shoulders—a switch flipped to the biggest worrier and tender heart when innocent people are involved.

His heart of gold blinds even himself sometimes. A family resemblance, it seems, where he and his brotherhood with Spike are concerned.

Greg rests his hand on Sam’s shoulder, along with a considerable weight to underlie the words he is about to say. “You won’t break it, Sam. You’re a man of your word and this time is no different.”

Sam’s eyes plead. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because we’ll be here to help you keep it.” Greg tries out a smile. Sam doesn’t mirror it, but his shoulders uncoil a few inches. “All of us.”

Wordy takes up the hint and gives a sloppy salute. “No cane or tremors are going to keep me down.”

“Why _do _you so many of you cops have canes?” Dan asks.

Wordy doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll take Rude Questions for two hundred, Alex. Try again.”

“Actually…I may have an idea about where to track that bee tattoo.”

“Now _that’s_ what I want to hear.” Wordy’s eyes spark with hope. “Lay it on me, Lucky Dan.”

Greg, chuckling, leaves them to it with another significant look at Sam. The halls are empty this late, nearing three in the morning, and it helps that they’ve set up shop in the SRU library, if it can even be called one. A tiny archive office off the main evidence locker filled with textbooks and training videos.

A place SRU officers rarely go if they can avoid it.

Jules hasn’t gone far, just to the breakroom. After a day of throbbing pain, Greg is grateful for this small mercy.

She’s leaning back against the table, facing a perfect view of Toronto at night, especially from this higher vantage. Though she’s in charge of Team One now, her mind seems far away. Arms folded, her ponytail coming out on one side. Legs crossed at the ankles.

Greg perches beside her, both hands on the top of his cane.

Jules doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t look at her. It’s a balanced moment, a ballet dancer on those tiny boxes of wood in their point shoes spinning for the world to admire before they fall back on their feet.

The room feels weightless. So does Greg.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he starts, eyes on a woman in the office building across from them, working the night shift. A stock trader by the looks of it. “I came in to take Kyle’s statement, when Ed got too emotional during the interview.”

'Emotional' being a more delicate word than _rage_, more discreet than Ed suddenly yanking at Kyle by his shirt collar, just once, before he could stop himself. Kyle's haughty behaviour, brazen even while being arrested, hadn't helped any. 

Jules shifts. “Is there a question in there?”

“He had bruise, Jules, on his chin. An almost perfect replica of the one on _Spike’s_ chin.”

Jules says nothing. She uncrosses her ankles to plant both feet on the floor. The motion sounds suspiciously stomp-like.

“Eye for an eye, Jules?”

“Something like that.”

Greg’s lips twitch. “How very Old Testament of you.”

He gives her a moment to roll the memory around in her mind. He himself will never forget the day Dean found out about the abuse, his eyes flaming with horror, the way he’d turned beet red and destroyed Greg’s flower bed in his fury. How Spike had thrown him that crooked smile and said absolutely nothing, letting the boy get it out of his system.

How Greg had found them hours later, curled up on the sofa in front of a _Columbo _rerun.

“Spike breaking his nose wasn’t enough for you?”

Jules inhales a breath that inflates her shoulders. “Better to punch Kyle, I figured, than my new drywall.”

“Jules…”

She turns to Greg then. “I’m not like Sam, boss. I don’t doubt that we’ll find them and get them back.”

“Great.” Greg stops, because he knows what her fear is.

She deserves to say it.

“My fear,” Jules continues, in a calm tone that is somehow infinitely worse than the shouting, “is _how _they’ll be when we find them. That the longer we waste time, the less likely they’ll be okay. That they’ll recover.”

Greg wants to reply; a dozen or so possible phrases come to mind, with the intent to comfort. In the end, he looks at Jules, opens and closes his mouth a few times, and says, “I’m worried about that too.”

Jules takes her own memento off the shelf. She tilts her head until it leans on Greg’s shoulder, tense at first and then, once she realizes he’s not going to shove her off, resting fully.

Greg wraps an arm around her. She’s warm, smelling faintly of soap under the sweat and gunpowder. Greg closes his eyes into her hair, wishing he had a spiky head on the other shoulder and a best friend badgering them while snapping photos.

He wants to feel home.

“Sorry about bailing,” says Jules. “I’m team leader. I need to be on my A-game.”

“It’s been a rough few months.” And isn’t that the understatement to end all understatements? Greg rubs her shoulder with his thumb. “You ready to go back?”

“Yeah.” Jules lifts her head. “Let’s do it. Thanks, boss.”

It’s a good thing they do, because when Greg gets his first glimpse of the library again, Wordy is standing, on the phone, and Dan hops up and down, actually _jumping_, with a dopey grin on his face.

Dean has joined them, and his wide eyes match the quietly mouthed, _no way_.

Leah stands off to the side, showing Wordy something on a tablet for reference.

Wordy talks fast and low, but it’s enough for Greg to catch the APB request.

“You found them?” He stares at Leah. “You found the vehicle?”

Wordy hangs up. “Rook doesn’t have a current address, couch surfing, but his uncle owns a house painting company.”

Leah smiles, a wicked grin. “Guess what vehicle I found heading out of town on traffic cameras? Especially when said van was reported stolen this morning and had the back windows spray painted over?”

Greg walks over and kisses Leah’s cheek. He’s so overjoyed he wants to jump too. “Thank you!”

She blinks, dazed, while Dean snickers.

Jules taps the footage. “You lost them?”

“There are no traffic cameras after you leave city limits,” Wordy confirms.

Greg catches on once he recognizes a landmark in the silent video file. “Cottage country? Why would they take Spike and Ed there? Does Rook’s family own any property?”

Wordy shakes his head. “That’s just it, Greg. They filled up at a gas station, the last place a camera caught them, and barreled into the woods.”

It’s been a long day. Greg is running on adrenaline and desperation. He needs a coffee, a shave, _sleep_. So it’s entirely probable he misheard those last four words. Right?

“The woods?” asks Dean. “You mean…you saw them head towards the lake house area?”

“No, I mean they pull out, head down the road, and then turn off into the brush.”

Jules regains some colour in her face. She snaps into leader mode with an actual snap of her fingers. “Wordy—where does that brush lead if it were to come out somewhere else?”

Wordy sits back down to type this into mapping software. His hands shake more than Greg is used to seeing, thanks to his own lack of sleep and stress, but his eyes are a hail storm. He’s probably also overdue for a dose of medication.

It takes Wordy a few tries to zoom in correctly. None of them say anything about it, and Greg is lovesick for them all over again.

This family of mismatched people won’t give up. They never leave each other behind.

Wordy’s chin does a funny jolt backwards. Eyebrows scrunched and mouth firmed into a confused shape.

“What?” Jules leans on the back of his chair. “Where would they be?”

Then her own jaw goes slack. She blinks a few times. “This can’t be right.”

Dean pushes in at her shoulder. “I don’t see what’s so…oh. Oh _man_.”

Greg doesn’t have to look. His gut sinks like a load of bricks, the impossibility of how big this net just became. “Please tell me they didn’t take Spike and Ed where I think they did.”

Leah mutters to herself, jotting furious notes. Jules is already on her cell, calling a number they haven’t had to use in a very long time. Years.

“This can’t be possible,” Dean explodes all at once.

Peter appears at the door, knocking. “There’s a call for—”

“I mean, surely someone would have stopped them!” Dean waves at the screen. “There aren't even any _dirt_ roads going through it, are there?”

“Not that law enforcement knows of,” says Wordy.

“Uh.” Peter takes another step in. “I’m sorry to interrupt but this can’t wait.”

“Peter,” says Greg, massaging his aching temples. “We’re trying to figure something out here, okay? Whoever is calling can’t be more important.”

“With all due respect, sir, this _is _more important.”

The confrontational tone catches everyone’s attention in an instant. Jules even pulls the phone down from her ear.

Greg studies Peter, an officer _he_ trained. Quiet, shy, but steadfast in a way that made Ed like him from day one. Greg too—Peter is honest to a fault. Though only a part-time dispatcher, they all love him.

It hits Greg for the first time that maybe Peter feels this injustice as keenly as they do, that he’s struggling with losing these people he’s heard in his ears every shift for the past seven years.

When Greg does little more than continue his codfish impression, Peter gathers his courage to say, in a solemn tone that sets everyone’s alarm bells off in a choir that Greg can almost _hear—_

“The FBI’s on the phone.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike’s nose wrinkles in a frightening imitation of Jules. He becomes a bull, charging red-visioned at his target.
> 
> Maybe there is no need for escape plans at all.

‘Wake up, roll up your sleeves—  
There’s a chain reaction in your heart,  
Muscle memory  
Remembering who you are.’

“Nine” ~ Sleeping At Last

It’s quiet. Why is it so quiet here?

There’s supposed to be noisy neighbours and fights and illegal fireworks and drunken singing.

_“We just gotta stop for some gas, officer. You sit tight and don’t let my friend here bite.”_

_Ponytail laughs, a savage sound, at Tattoo’s words._

_Without sight, blindfolded, Spike’s world comes down to the rattle of old tires and the feel of stiff, synthetic fabric under his fingertips. Ed’s chest rising and falling. _

_Spike considers making a run for the gas station, now that they are stopped, but can’t leave Ed here, not even to contact help._

_Ponytail seems aware of this too, humming to himself. He clacks at the cellphone. Does that thing even have text…?_

Focus, Spike.

_Spike does, after they take off down the road. However, it only adds more questions._

_The road becomes dirt, if the jostling and scraping branches are any indication. It’s all Spike can do to keep himself sitting upright and Ed on his side. They’re thrown back and forth, trees groaning at the press of the van on narrow paths._

_The road remains dirt, uneven, but the tree sounds desist after a few hours._

_They are replaced by…by a…horse?_

_A whinnying sound, an animal scolding their van as it passes. Farm country?_

_That doesn’t seem right. Spike is a city boy through and through, has never pet a horse let alone ridden one._

_Yet even he knows this clopping sound is too loud, too sharp, and too fast for a horse grazing in a field._

_There’s a jangling too, a metal sound._

_It fades away, only for another one, an exact archetype of the last jangling-whinny-clopping, to take its place. The sounds happen over and over again during a two hour period, about fifteen incidents total. Some of the jangling is deep and squeaky. Some cheerful, like Santa’s sleigh in a Christmas movie._

The blindfold is messing with you. That’s all.

_Spike tunes it out. When Tattoo and Ponytail strike up a hushed conversation, Spike ignores that too—along with good training and recon skills—to indulge himself, just a bit._

_He places his forehead on Ed’s chest, then twists so his ear is pressed tight. It’s an awkward position, Ed on his side and Spike hunched over on his knees._

_He nearly cries at the sound of air whooshing through Ed’s lungs. How strong it is. Its synchronization with a deafening heartbeat, the sound of Ed, his friend and mentor. The one who can fix anything._

_Except…except he can’t fix it. That’s down to Spike. _He _has to fix this, just like he fixes their equipment and tech all the time._

You can do this, Spike.

_Spike frowns. Now that he’s so close to Ed, something seems…off. The oxygen in Ed’s lungs jangles, mutters._

_Mutters?_

“Darn key. If you’d replaced the locks, like I asked, maybe the metal wouldn’t be warped.”

“Sorry, highness.”

“Watch it.”

_There’s_ the noise. A horrible clanking that echoes until it's muted by wood.

Spike wrestles his eyes open in time to watch the metal door at the top of the stairs clang shut. A plastic plate of food and fresh water bottle sit on the top step.

Dreaming…he’d been dreaming.

Only it wasn’t a dream. Spike rubs at his eyes and the memory of that awful van ride crystallizes again. He really had heard the sound of an animal.

_Where _are _we?_

Or where was Spike, anyway. Ed could be halfway around the world by now and Spike wouldn’t know.

The moment sleep fully vanishes from Spike’s system, his eyes widen.

Deep shame courses through every inch of his body, a hot faucet that refuses to turn off in bubbling, scalding waves. He looks down at a ball of nylon in his fist, the tied together shoelaces from his boots he’d meant to use on Tattoo.

_You missed your shot, Scarlatti. Way to go._

What would Ed think of him now? Falling asleep before he can set a plan in motion?

If Spike doesn’t do something, he’ll never get to find out. It’s up to Spike to save them now. With Ed’s serious concussion, mobility will be an issue.

Spike is still mentally listing all the symptoms of a grade three concussion before the smell of food hits his nose and he remembers the plate.

Unfurling the bowstring-tight ball of his frame turns out to be harder than he imagined. His butt is numb. Pins and needles race along both legs, and his blood sugar is so low that he’s dizzy enough to rival a Tasmanian devil.

Nope. Scratch that.

Standing is definitely harder.

He falls the first attempt, sliding back down thanks to his floppy boots. The second time, after toeing them off, is more successful. The floor is ice, even through his thick socks. He stuffs the shoelaces in his pocket.

Spike grips the railing in both hands, waits for the room to stop lurching. His knees knock together but after a moment his body calms. He ends up ascending the stairs in a crawl, on all fours.

For the first time he is _very _glad Ed isn’t here with him. This is undignified enough.

Spike holds the bottle up to faint light streaming in through the window, much brighter than when he arrived. Daytime then?

It turns out to be unnecessary, as the seal is unbroken. Spike gulps it down in sporadic bursts. It’s tough not to chug it all down, and he wars with his human instinct against sound training.

Once only a third is left, he stops. Who knows when they will feel benevolent enough to feed him again?

The food is a stale hunk of sorry bread and some baked beans. There are no utensils—and therefore no potential weapons—of any kind.

Spike doesn’t care. He tips the whole plate back so he can scoop beans into his mouth with the bread. It’s all old, most likely expired, food.

Energy, however, is more important than nutrition right now.

Belly full, Spike sets down the plate. He feels fine, so no drugs. Sitting on the top step, he eyes the window above him, the one he tried to break before he fell asleep.

No luck. It’s the newest thing here, a Plexiglas pane of such thickness it would make the gun range proud.

There isn’t a single outlet.

Spike wonders about that. About a building this size with no electrical sockets to speak of in a room very clearly designed for storing crates. No lightbulbs. Not even any wires.

He inspected the room for hours before falling asleep. Down to the last centimeter.

No batteries, no loose shards of wood from beams overhead. No leftover pieces of metal. No nails. Walls smooth. The ‘latrine’ bucket is all plastic.

Even the stairs are made using _wooden_ screws. Spike’s never seen anything like it.

“What are the facts?” Spike whispers to himself, in Greg’s signature ‘teacher’ voice. “Stack ‘em up.”

There aren’t very many, but what Spike does know is puzzling:

One. These men are working for someone else.

Two. They intend to keep him alive and stable, at least for now. The food proved that.

Three. He is far from Toronto, multiple hours’ drive away. Somewhere with horses, apparently.

Four. It was a premeditated attack, if the poker players are to be believed. Someone faked a gun call—a good one—to grab them.

Five. They don’t know Spike’s real name, hadn’t bothered to read it off his badge while dumping it.

_They don’t know my name_. And isn’t that an oddity? Hostile subjects tend to always want to know the cop’s name. It gives them a feeling of control, a power trip.

Spike’s most burning question, aside from Ed’s location, is motive, but there’s no time. Escape is more pressing.

Metal. He needs metal to form a lock pick.

Spike pats his pockets down again. Other than the shoelaces, all he has left is another gauze pad and a small roll of medical tape. Spike’s hands freeze over his waist.

_Or maybe not. My belt!_

He quickly snakes it out of his pant loops. While the tab on the end is metal, thin and sturdy, getting it free is going to be the problem. He’s working at the leather with his teeth when is occurs to him that maybe the tape is a better option.

It’s an old trick, one he learned in middle school detention.

But it just might work.

After putting his belt back on, Spike tears off three individual strips from the roll. It’s hardy tape, adhesive to the point it might make things _more _difficult, but Spike takes his chances. Each strip is no longer than his thumb and about as wide as two fingers together.

One strip he places beside the doorknob on the frame side. Half is securely stuck down, the other flutters in the room’s ambient circulation.

The second strip he places over top of that one, to reinforce its strength.

The last strip is placed on the knob side, half stuck on and half floating free.

He’s only just finished angling them precisely where he needs when voices sound on the other side of the door.

Spike pales.

The door is unlocked and thrown open. Spike springs out of the way, but his arm reaches out to flatten the two tape layers over the hole where the bolt will go. He doesn’t have time to do the other one.

Tattoo sees him and scowls.

“Get back! What are you—”

Spike’s nose wrinkles in a frightening imitation of Jules. He becomes a bull, charging red-visioned at his target.

Maybe there is no need for escape plans at all.

Spike launches all of his weight into the lunge. He’s slight, wiry, but not short by any means.

He tackles Tattoo. They land in a heap on the floor of another storeroom, this one with a funny smell.

It’s blinding, seeing full sunlight through a door down the hall after hours in a dim hole.

Spike’s eyes water while he writhes, punching and struggling against arms trying to flip him onto his back.

It is this disadvantage that gets him.

He gets in a solid wallop to Tattoo’s cheekbone.

Before Spike can follow that up with a head butt, a hand fists in the back of his sweater. He’s bodily lifted up, a child caught brawling on the playground. That same hand throws him back down the stairs.

Spike cries out when his shoulder strikes the lip of the top step. He protects his head with his arms until he lands at the bottom, his skid on concrete abruptly ending when he hits the wall.

Above him, Tattoo and Ponytail swear up a storm, one poking at his impressive black eye, Ponytail sneering.

“Nice try,” the blond says. “I’m impressed.”

Then he throws down another water bottle. “No more food for you, though, I think. We’ve got to learn our lesson, hmm? One thing I will say—you’re feistier than the others.”

Spike waits until he’s not panting, until the door closes. He lies there on his side, throbbing all over but miraculously not bleeding. He’s going to be bruised to hell tomorrow, but it’s worth it for the fact that the door…

Spike shimmies up the stairs, once he’s sure they’re gone.

_Should have known Tattoo wasn’t alone, Spike._

Even worse? The tape wasn’t strong enough. If Spike squints just right, he can see that the deadbolt slid across the gap. It perforated the tape. Both pieces.

Spike sinks to his knees, breathing off kilter.

All that effort and planning, wasted.

Spike replays the words. Others. _Others—_he’s not the first to be a victim of this. Fact number six he can add to his mental list.

Renewed with equal parts panic and possibility, Spike takes a chug of the water bottle and gets to work.

This is going to require a lot of tape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to 'Orion pretends to be MacGyver' hour! As someone who's learned how to pick locks, your average belt tab is useless. Alas. I have no idea if the tape trick would work but I _have_ worked with medical tape a lot and that stuff is tough as nails.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a childlike slip, showing his age, Dean gasps and asks, “Like the J. Edgar Hoover FBI?” 
> 
> Peter breathes out a laugh, slightly hysterical. “The director of Homeland Intelligence himself, to be precise. Director William Hartford.”

‘Even precious things get lost,  
You put them down  
And someone’s taken off  
With them.

So give me hope any way you can.  
I need to know that there’s a plan.’

“Precious Things” ~ Jonathan Seet

Now _this _is more like it.

Quiet (finally), soft under his head, cool air. No screaming or bright lights. A much more pleasant return to awareness than the first time.

Ed feels a niggling somewhere in his mind.

Spike! That’s it!

He needs to check Spike over for injury. He must be terrified, blind and beaten.

That replayed image is enough to snap Ed’s eyes open. The incident, that horrible assault, feels like it just happened. “Spike? You there?”

The fact he can keep his eyes open is his first clue. It’s dark, cave dark, so that he can’t even see the edges of the mattress he lies upon.

It wrenches between his gut in spasms once the realization arrives—he’s alone. Spike is nowhere near…wherever this is. Or he would have answered.

_Maybe he can’t_, Ed wants to believe. _He could be unconscious or gagged._

Ed struggles to piece together what happened and finds he can’t. He has no memory after getting out of the truck at the tailor’s shop. There’s that hazy, terrible image of Spike getting yanked around by his hair and struck but it doesn’t coalesce properly. Did that happen in the alleyway?

Ed isn’t bound, his second shock.

He tries to sit up, his head throbbing in one spot this time, low in the back of his skull. Probably concussed to high heaven.

Nope. Nuh-uh. Ed takes it back: this is ten times worse than before.

Before he can even sit up to ninety degrees, nausea swirls in a reverse tornado up his windpipe.

Ed scrambles around until his hands hit a plastic bucket. He leans over it, spewing into the bucket while he stomach clenches and unclenches. Ears ringing.

It’s one of the worst cases of nausea Ed’s ever experienced. He rides it out with eyes squeezed shut, hands nearly cracking the bucket.

Definitely a concussion, then.

There isn’t much in his stomach and though he’s not hungry, he can physically feel how empty it is.

The only light in the room comes from a seam of cracks around the door to Ed’s left. The floor is wood by the cold and smell, no windows at all.

No _sound_ at all.

Once Ed is done turning his intestinal system inside out, he breathes heavy and strains to hear traffic. Maybe they’re in a skyscraper, high up?

Ed wants to do a revolution of the room, if nothing else than to see if Spike is here too, or if there are any potential weapons, but he can barely sit straight without swaying.

He sets the bucket down and feels around.

At first he wonders if he’s not firing on all cylinders. The sensory information coming to him doesn’t make sense.

His hand comes in contact with something rough and crackling.

It’s…it’s _straw._

Ed huffs, amazed. “I’m sitting on a straw mattress.”

He remembers a trip their school took once, when he was in elementary, to an “authentic village” an hour or so drive out of the city. The historic settlement was preserved to teach new generations about daily life for their ancestors.

This feels exactly like that, thick cloth stuffed with hay.

Ed is so flabbergasted that he nearly knocks over the water bottle near his feet.

He holds it between his hands for a long time. What if it’s unsafe? What if it’s a ruse, psychological torture?

Shaking, muscles cramping from dehydration, Ed knows he doesn’t have a choice. He sips warily at it. It tastes normal, purified even. His parched throat, inflamed from all the vomiting, feels worlds better.

However, an empty stomach sloshed half full of water is enough to bring on the queasiness again.

He refuses to succumb to it. Ed clamps his lips shut while reaching down for his boots. His captors have to come back eventually, probably with more water or food, if they’ve kept him alive this long.

There’s even a bandage around his head.

Ed pats at it with ginger fingers. Wincing, he takes note of how the bandage has been carefully folded, taped with an ‘x’ formation, just like he taught—

_Spike._

Ed’s eyes, blown wide and uneven, grow bright. Spike bandaged him up, suffering alone for who knows how long, protecting Ed through it all.

A shuddering starts in Ed’s limbs, an echo of the fire from before.

How _dare_ someone lay a finger on their boy! Ed wants to tear these men limb from limb just for the sheer audacity of it.

They not only blindfolded an unarmed man but taunted him too.

Ed is so consumed with rage that he actually finds the energy to get up. Not much, just to all fours, but it’s enough for him to do a quick survey of the room. Tiny, your basic private office size. Not a scrap of furniture or wiring in it to speak of. There aren’t even any electrical outlets.

Strangely enough, the walls are made of red brick. Few buildings in Toronto are made like this anymore.

The trip costs Ed more than he predicted. By the time he makes it back to the mattress, his movements are sluggish, uncoordinated. The shades of dim blur together and Ed curls up as best he can, head wound far away from the fabric to avoid brushing it.

Though he loses the battle with consciousness, he comforts himself with one simple victory—

He’s almost got the laces off both boots.

* * *

In a childlike slip, showing his age, Dean gasps and asks, “Like the J. Edgar Hoover FBI?” 

Peter breathes out a laugh, slightly hysterical. “The director of Homeland Intelligence himself, to be precise. Director William Hartford.”

They’re gathered around the front desk, Peter holding the landline in his right hand and muted by his left. He tries to hand it to Greg.

Greg scoffs. “I’m not active, Peter. Hell—I’m not even an officer anymore. Jules is team leader. Give it to her.”

Peter shakes his head. “As soon as your name came up in the database, they insisted on you being the point of contact.”

“Why would my name…?”

Greg closes his eyes with a defeated sigh at the same time Jules whispers, “Secondary consent. They must’ve found out that we’re next of kin for Spike.”

“Um, hello?” Dean flaps his hand. “Is nobody else freaking out that the _FBI _is calling us?”

“Actually,” says Peter, smoothly ignoring Dean, “Director Hartford said it’s because of your track record. He was impressed by your success rate throughout your career.”

Wordy’s eyebrows hike higher. “How did they even find out…actually, you know what? I don’t want to know.”

Leah took Dan off to Vice, with profuse thanks for his help, and the rookies went home for the night. So it’s just the five of them in the front lobby.

Sam sits behind the dispatch computer, following a lead. His eyes flick up to watch the ongoing drama every few seconds.

Winnie joins them a moment later. She’s redone her make up, a little more rested from a catnap, and by the hard set of her jaw, she’s ready to get back in the fight. “Answer it, boss. If the kidnappers really did make it across the Canadian-US border, whether by illegal or legal means, we need all the help we can get.”

Greg looks into the face of each individual here. The memories, the good with the bad, mistakes and victories shared and shouldered together.

“Alright.” Greg inclines his head. “Alright, give it to me.”

Peter does, with a smile. Since the SRU landline is wireless, Greg walks away into the briefing room and sits facing the windows. He needs as few distractions as possible.

Still, once alone, Greg pauses.

He realizes he’s been going for hours straight. That he hasn’t given himself any time to _feel_. He doesn’t want to, but his heart gives him no choice, ravenous, devouring any images of his friends that dare pop into his mind—and they do, with abandon.

There’s just one, really. A banal one, at that.

The day they finished a tough call, a successful takedown of a bank robber near the park. Sun setting at their backs, everyone shielded their eyes in irritation and fatigue.

Not Spike. Spike had turned to face the sun, stretched his back in that cat like way, the golden light setting his hair into a bronze flame. The corona flare over that dimpled grin melted the hard lines on all their faces.

Ed laughed at him, shaking his head with a ruffle of the tech’s sun-warmed hair.

Greg’s absent eyes burn. He closes them for a moment, just breathing through it. He needs to be level headed, at his best, to help them. Even if it’s killing him.

With a sniff, he brings the phone to his ear. “Director. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“_Sergeant Parker_.” There’s a smile in the man’s voice. And no small dose of sympathy. “_Not a problem at all. All-nighter aside, I know this has been a hard day._”

“You can say that again. Call me Greg, please.”

“_Greg, I’ll get straight to the point, if that’s alright with you_.”

Greg lets out a terse breath. This man isn’t going to mess with him, he can tell. He likes the man’s efficient way of speaking and no-nonsense approach; it reminds Greg of Ed. “That’s a relief, actually, Director. Thank you.”

“_Forgive the unusual urgency in contacting you, but when two SRU officers were captured by someone with a wasp tattoo, we took notice._”

“And why is that? Surely the Bureau has more pressing matters than two Canadians, grateful as I am.”

This time there’s a reluctance. Hartford’s voice is heavier than moments earlier. “_What I’m about to tell you is normally classified, but I assume I can trust you with it since you have a personal stake in this case._”

Greg swallows, not that it helps his wet lashes any. “Yes, you can. There’s…there’s very little I won’t do to get them back.”

Hartford’s own sigh crackles the line. “_Just as I thought. Their kidnapping is the very first solid lead we’ve had in over two months._”

“You’re trying to catch this man with the tattoo?” Greg asks. “He’s a US citizen, I’m assuming, since his prints didn’t show up in our database.”

“_Correct, though we don’t know his real name,_” says Hartford. “_Greg—this isn’t the first time he’s grabbed people. Our agents, both undercover and here in DC, have gone missing. We’re in a tizzy trying to stop the cycle._”

A snare tangles up in Greg’s chest and its spool of silver thread. His voice is forced to a whisper. “How many are we talking?”

Silence over the line.

Greg’s lips quiver once and then still.

It is so silent, in fact, that he can hear the bustle of phones ringing and agents chattering in the back. It’s two am, DC time, and even they aren’t sleeping. The implications of that settle in Greg’s stomach.

“_Greg…I’ve lost twenty-three agents to this bastard, some colleagues and childhood friends, in the span of seven months._”

Eyes closed again, Greg massages the bullet site in his leg.

“_Your guys make twenty-five_,” Hartford finishes, quiet.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winnie steps up, Moses passing through the Red Sea. Greg immediately reaches out for her, hand on each elbow. “Boss, Greg…it’s Spike and Ed.”
> 
> Everyone nods. A shared hum spins through the room.
> 
> “Please,” she says. “We can’t just go home. _Please_.”

‘I will send out an army  
To find you in the middle  
Of the darkest night  
It’s true, I will rescue you.’

“Rescue” ~ Lauren Daigle

Twenty-five. _Twenty-five_!

To the average observer, that isn’t a very big number at all. Twenty-five people is just a trickle, barely a bus load. This briefing room alone can hold upwards of forty for a big bust.

Greg imagines them all, including Spike and Ed, standing shoulder-to-shoulder around him. Twenty-five people wouldn’t even take up half of the room.

In law enforcement speak, twenty-five is astronomical.

Worse still, in law enforcement speak—seven months is hopelessness. A dead end. If you’re going to catch a major suspect, you do it in the first three _weeks_, let alone months.

And this isn’t some amateur county clerk. Not even an inner city crimes unit.

This is a federal investigative agency, one of the best in the world. They’ve stopped home soil terrorist plots and mob dons.

And their first major lead on an abduction ring happens to be two missing SWAT officers from Canada.

Greg loses a few seconds while his brain reboots from the shockwave of it all.

There are a million concerns in that one piece of information alone. Professionally, evidence and its compatibility with what the FBI has collected is the best place to start. It’s imperative to understand where they are, how close to making an arrest. Greg, on any other case, would ask about that first.

What comes out of his mouth, instinctive and burning, is, “_Why_?”

“_Greg—_”

“Law enforcement, and I could argue even more so SWAT, are not easy targets,” Greg insists. Professionalism goes out the window. “They are the opposite of ideal. They aren’t pliable or likely to give in to fear. They’re trained for these exact scenarios. Why grab them?”

This phone conversation hasn’t even lasted ten minutes but it’s enough to get a read on Director Hartford, a sense of personality and manner.

So when he _hesitates_, Greg sits up straighter in his chair. “Director?”

It’s not the silence of last time, the working up of nerve or weighing how to word something. This is downright indecision, and it balloons between them.

Greg’s eyes widen.

Then Hartford says, in a very soft tone, “_They reappear all over the place. Our officers have sprung up as far away as Gibraltar_.”

“Okay…And then you get them back. Retrieve them, right? They were kidnapped and shipped far away but you get them back?”

_Please_, Greg wants to add. _Please tell me you get them back._

This is Spike and Ed, two of the most important people in Greg’s life. He can’t fathom living without them and hasn’t even entertained it until now.

“_Sometimes_,” says Hartford. “_Sometimes they come home in body bags_.”

Greg closes his eyes.

“_Sometimes with one of_ _our bullets in their chests._”

Ice slicks down Greg’s spine. He stops breathing, the hammer pulse of his dizzy panic echoing in his ears.

_No...no, he can’t be right._

None of this is right. The implications…the possibility of it happening to…

“What are you saying?” Greg’s voice, broken, is not even a whisper; a breath. A vapor of desperation and stretched humanity. “What happens to them?”

“_I think this is something I should tell you in person, Greg. I’m heading to the airport as we speak._”

“Not something you can tell me over the phone?”

“_No_,” says Hartford, resigned. “_Plus, I want to be there to run interference with CSIS. My superiors tried to grab this case out of your hands, but this involves all of us now._”

“Small comfort, but thank you.”

_“In my opinion, you have the right to know._” It’s the most fire, righteous sounding, from the man Greg’s heard so far.

“Okay.” He runs a hand down his face and the skin feels like gravel. “Okay. Call me when you land.”

“_You’ll be the first to know_,” says Hartford. “_And for the record, Parker…I’m sorry. I know how this feels. I’ve been where you are now._”

“Yeah.” Greg shakes his head and then remembers Hartford can’t see it. By the time he goes to say something else, the line is dead.

He slumps there a moment longer, imagining all these exceptional personnel vanishing with barely a trace.

Phantom images of Spike and Ed hover somewhere too, just over Greg’s shoulder. Not one next to each, but both together, pressed tight and looking at Greg with those hopeful eyes. His imagination of them is crystal clear yet they are hazy in the space of this empty briefing room where they’ve shared so many laughs and tears.

He blinks, and they are gone. Greg’s breathing hitches.

When he resurfaces from the rare moment of panic, his ears finally clue in to a growing noise behind him. It’s low, climbing in volume, like a river.

Greg stands, turning, and wonders if he’s at last reached the hallucinating stage:

All the SRU teams—_all of them—_mill around the too-small space of the front lobby, chattering over each other while Sam tries to contain the chaos. It’s like the night before a huge bust, only _bigger._

There has to be over fifty officers, let alone the dispatchers who’ve joined Peter and Guns n’ Gangs members with Wordy and even Dean, shuffling around with boxes of food. They’re all clearly trying to keep their voices down on his behalf.

Stunned, Greg freezes for a moment. Then Jules waves him over.

“What are you all _doing_ here?” he blurts.

The jovial atmosphere of moments earlier halts. Conversations hush and fade away.

Sam shoulders his way to the front of the crowd, some half dressed and others fully geared up. One officer has slippers on. Another is eating a danish, frozen half way to her mouth.

“Greg,” says Sam, “I called them. Well…_some _of them. Word spreads fast around here.” He casts a wry, appreciative look behind him and there’s a communal chuckle. “We all want to help.”

Greg huffs a helpless, gobsmacked laugh. “It’s three in the morning! Some of you have families! Not to mention there has to be a team here on shift for the city’s needs too.”

“Already taken care of,” Jules pipes up. Seven people raise their hands. “Team Four is covering.”

Greg indulges himself in another long look. He’s trained nearly every face present, seen them fail and succeed.

_Legacy_. The word washes over him again. _Maybe this will be the thing that saves me—us—in the end._

Greg’s eyes grow bright. “I can’t ask you to do this. We’re way out of our league as is. This is international jurisdiction now.”

A dizzying chorus of glances are shared. Then everyone’s gaze zeroes in on someone towards the back of this huddle. In a unison, completely wordless motion, the hoard of police parts.

Winnie steps up, Moses passing through the Red Sea. Greg immediately reaches out for her, hand on each elbow. “Boss, Greg…it’s Spike and Ed.”

Everyone nods. A shared hum spins through the room.

“Please,” she says. “We can’t just go home. _Please_.”

It’s an echo of Greg’s earlier words to Hartford.

“They’d do the same if it was us,” says Wordy, his voice thick. He swallows, lips unsteady for a moment. “How can we do any less for them?”

They’re all looking at Greg, and just like that he’s thrown back into the past, the role that fits like a long lost friend’s arms. Seeking leadership, seeking a direction.

Greg’s gaze falls on Jules, her eyes coals of fire.

“You’re Team One leader,” he says, once he’s sure he can without making an embarrassing noise or breaking down. “What’s the plan?”

There’s a muted cheer of victory and Winnie squeezes Dean’s hand. Wordy wipes at his eyes.

“Nuh-uh, boss.” Jules winks. “This is all you. Go for it.”

Greg puts his hands on his hips. He thinks for a moment, running through what they know so far.

“Alright, listen up.”

The crowd straightens.

“That was the FBI on the phone,” he says, watching the ripple of surprise. “We know that Spike and Ed were probably taken into the US, which means we can’t download their traffic camera footage without permission. Wordy—”

“We’re on it!” Wordy jots some notes while his team nods along.

“Thanks.” Greg smiles. “Where are we on our impostor?”

Leah holds up a sheaf of papers. “We’re tracking his car after he left the house now.”

“Good. Keep on that. Sam? Interview the uncle who lent his nephew the paint truck. I want to know everything about Rook this morning—down to his deodorant and what he ate for breakfast.”

“Copy that,” says Sam.

“Jules,” he continues, “We’re going to work with the FBI when our director friend gets here. Make sure he’s up to speed with the latest information.”

Greg points to the crowd. “Teams Two and Five, see if we can figure out where Rook may have purchased a gun. Contact CI friends if you have to. Team Six, I want you to interview the gas station where our kidnappers stopped. See if they said anything or noticed something unusual.

“Team Four—stay safe, please. This may not be an isolated incident.”

The shuffle of renewed activity halts again, this time with a hurt kind of wonder. It’s muted, courtesy of them being in a profession which sees much worse horrors everyday.

But kidnapped cops…it’s like hitting a nerve. They’re all alight with pain.

“I know this is hard.” Greg lets some of the turmoil inside his chest leak out. Just enough to see and commiserate, to wrap tendrils of empathy around their fast beating hearts. “It isn’t fair and it isn’t right. But we don’t leave our people behind and we _certainly_ don’t give up on them—we’re not about to start now.”

Jules reaches out when Greg’s tongue falters. He can feel her hand through his sweater, warm on his shoulder, her thumb looping on its track.

That’s all they are, planets circling, drawn in and propelled by love for each other.

The four members left of this little family find each other’s eyes through the pack. Wordy nods at something in Sam’s face, and Jules sniffs.

Greg’s own eyes light up. Scalding. “Let’s get to work.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dad! Dad, please.” Dean twists in his father’s embrace to look up at him, imploring. His eyes are swimming. “Do something!”
> 
> Cho answers, while his two colleagues begin carting off boxes and bags of evidence. “He can’t. It’s out of your hands now.”
> 
> And just like that, the agents leave like they were never even there.

‘How long have I been in this storm,  
So overwhelmed by the ocean’s shapeless form?  
Water’s getting harder to tread  
With these waves crashing over my head.’

“Storm” ~ Lifehouse

With no way to mark the passing of time—even the window, dirty and out of place as it is, doesn’t help at all because it’s always the same brightness level—water bottles become the scratch on the prison wall.

It takes the third water bottle tossed down for Spike to realize something’s not right.

He’s just finished layering seven pieces of tape on either side of the door, building it up so that it seals a little more every time they open and close it to throw him water, when the room tilts. For a fraction of a second.

In the dim lighting, Spike can almost believe he imagined it.

The clench in his stomach he cannot.

It’s violent but small, a quiver of the gut. The closest he can compare it to is the time he and Lew got food poisoning in Jamaica.

But this isn’t quite the same. Food poisoning is a slimy, slithery snake inside one’s body.

This is blocky, all jagged lines and sharp points. He’s not even sure it can be called nausea. It’s just…wrong.

By the time Spike makes it down the stairs, his legs have joined the quiver.

He curls up and takes another sip of the water, hoping to quell the sensation. It’s probably a stomach bug from too many naps on this cold floor.

He also wants to finish the bottle. He quickly learned that they won’t replace the water unless he completely empties one and sets the empty bottle at the top of the stairs.

Which means they’re too scared to go down to him, to get too close. Especially after last time. Tattoo still sports a black eye the scant times he’s peeked inside.

It is absurd, in Spike’s mind, that he hasn’t escaped yet. He bets that Ed is already out, running around with the team, looking all over the horrid woods of Toronto for him. Beating up Tattoo and Ponytail.

_Come on, Scarlatti. You can do this._

Spike isn’t sure how it happens.

One minute he closes his eyes, dreaming of that beautiful image of Ed dropkicking Ponytail into Alberta’s area code.

The next, he opens them and the men’s voices outside are quiet. With the window not much help to tell the time, he senses he fell asleep for a while. At least they’ve come and emptied the latrine bucket.

The wrong feeling is all over his body now, a white fire of wind and ash. It’s not only queasy but _painful_. Spike groans, levering himself with difficulty to all fours.

He nearly tips over again.

_There’s_ the nausea.

He hurls into the bucket again and again, hungry stomach clenching, barely anything coming up.

He leans his forehead on the wall once the spell abates, so dizzy it’s paralyzing. “Ed, ‘m sorry. S’rry ‘m not…buff as you.”

Spike closes his eyes but that’s worse. They pop open again. Grief is a pretzel twist inside his heart, wrung out and dry and broken and scared and…

_So _scared.

He keeps talking, the most comfort he’s had since he got here. “Can’ escape like you. Can’t talk someone out of anything. Can’t…” Spike winces. “Move.”

The ground rushes up to meet Spike and he doesn’t lift a finger to stop it.

Chasing him into the black is a cruel laugh. “That’s the whole idea, officer.”

* * *

It’s not the weirdest sight the SRU has ever seen—and that’s saying something—but it’s up there. Greg, walking in with a fresh cup of coffee, stops dead:

Jules, hair out of its signature ponytail and mouth lax with sleep, is curled up in the briefing room. _On the table_, where a blanket has been tucked around her shoulders and fuzzy socks-clad feet by someone else’s hand. Dead to the world.

Sam jogs up to Greg’s side, carrying a folder. Something in his eyes goes incredibly soft when he too spots Jules. “Finally. I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours now.”

Greg side-eyes Sam’s damp hair and the sunshine yellow hoodie that doesn’t fit quite right. “Finally,” he echoes. A teasing glint lights up on his face. “We’ve been trying to get you to shower for _days_ now.”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

Greg’s brow quirks. “We were about to fumigate the locker room.”

Sam shoves him off, light, but with a real smile. Also the first of its kind in too many hours.

Heaven knows none of them have really slept or cared for themselves since this all started. Case in point being Wordy, behind the desk with Winnie, nodding off into his palm while she types.

The SRU is quiet, for once. Team Two is out on shift and the others have been convinced to take a break. Jules shuffles in her sleep, one arm poking out of the blanket to slide underneath her head.

“No news?” Sam asks in a low tone. “It’s been two days. Almost to the hour.”

Greg sighs. “Nothing. I’ve tried calling Director Hartford back, but…the number doesn’t work. Not a trace of him. CSIS won’t return my calls either, probably because Spike is usually our liaison with them.”

They both sober, all trace of humour gone, at just his name. At the reminder of how they’re all scrambling without his presence.

Just yesterday, Team Three hadn’t been able to stop a virus that corrupted a mall’s security camera and their ATM robber got away. Sam, leader of said team, wears the sorrow of that on his face.

Not even the crime, though that stings too, but this hole in their perfect circle. They’re a rickety table sans one of its legs, unsteady and shaking.

“I miss them.”

Greg looks at Sam head on, surprised to hear the admission, though they’re all feeling it. Sam doesn’t usually wear his heart on his sleeve, doesn’t share what he’s feeling.

Doesn’t like admitting pain.

“Me too,” says Greg, noting that Sam’s eyes are already far away again. The young man shifts, sleeves riding up past his wrists. The whole garment looks too small.

Closer up, the hoodie doesn’t _smell_ right either. It’s not Sam’s usual cologne and salty sweat smell. It’s earthier, mixed with tomatoes, almost like—

It’s Greg’s turn to melt, once he remembers. His eyes burn. “Taking a page out of Spike’s book, are we?”

Sam shrugs. “I figure he steals enough of my clothing that I ought to return the favour. I still can’t find his secret stash to get _mine_ back. So, you know, I just grabbed one of his since it’s getting colder.”

“Uh huh…” Greg doesn’t buy it for a second. “Sure.”

Sam shifts again, showing his too-few years. On another, less well trained man, it might look self-conscious. “Yellow is Spike’s favourite colour.”

_I know. By God, do I know._

“That’s why I bought him that sweater,” Greg murmurs. “Before his father died.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

Greg smiles, though nothing about this is remotely funny. “His father hated it. Hated yellow and hated that Spike refused to wear demur, muted colours like he’d raised him to.”

Sam rubs the jogging fleece between his fingers. A knowing look enters his eye. “You bought this just so Spike would wear it to the hospital every time he visited, so his father had to see it.”

“That’s a nice theory,” says Greg, airy. “Too bad we’ll never know.”

Sam’s lips resume their cheeky grin. “Too bad indeed.”

Greg savours the smell of Spike, the evidence of he and Ed everywhere in these halls. From the flowers on Winnie’s desk, to the gloves Ed loses everywhere—including the foot of the briefing table, next to Jules’ knees—to the kitschy fridge magnets Spike has started leaving on lockers to prank colleagues.

It’s all home. It’s _theirs_. The four members of this family present own it, embrace it like Sam in the hoodie.

And for a fragile moment, stillness rules the SRU. Not peace, but a lack of fretting.

The squeak of sneakers on linoleum has Greg turning to see Dean springing his way in, backpack on one shoulder and Sadie drooling on the other.

Sam’s smile grows even wider when he spots them. “Hey! Thanks again for picking her up, man.”

“Not a problem.” Dean drops his bag. Sadie pat-pats his cheek with the pudgy fingers previously in her mouth, leaving a wet spot. “Her daycare is on the way here from the Academy so it’s no hassle.”

“Get in here.” Sam makes grabby hands at his daughter.

Sadie squeals. “Daddy!”

She falls into her father’s arms and pats his cheek too. Her fingers go back into her mouth after, sucked on with vigour. Sam takes the hint and roots around in a diaper bag behind the dispatch desk for a sandwich.

“Yeah.” Greg opens his arm. “Get in here.”

Dean rolls his eyes but obliges. He tucks himself under Greg’s shoulder and submits to the kiss along his forehead.

Sam bounces Sadie. “What do we say to Dean?”

“Acks, Dee!”

Dean laughs. “Close enough. You’re welcome, Sadie. Though I think ‘Dee’ is your nickname, not mine.”

“I don’t know.” Greg smirks at his son. “Dee has a nice ring to it.”

“Dee!” Sadie chirps again. Her bubbly mood is infectious and Dean pretends to grumble.

Jules, attuned to the sounds of her baby in that mysterious way of mothers everywhere, wakes the moment she hears Sadie. Rubbing at her eyes, she swings her legs to the floor.

“It’s supper time for all of us,” she rasps, smiling when Sadie takes a huge bite of the jam sandwich and Sam has to pull it back out through much wrestling and sticky fingers.

“Not that much. You don’t have enough teeth for that yet,” Sam scolds.

“Teef,” says Sadie.

“She can say teeth but not my name.” Dean shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Can you believe kids these days?”

It’s such an Ed Lane thing to say and such an Ed Lane tone to use that everyone lets out a startled laugh before they can censor it. Even Wordy, who wakes as well at the commotion.

He limps over to join the huddle—ruffling Dean’s hair—and just like that their family, what’s left for now, is present and accounted for.

It doesn’t escape Greg’s notice that Wordy automatically leaves a gap on his left side for where Ed stands. Nor that the man’s eyes got misty when he touched Dean’s hair instead of Spike’s.

Before Greg can lose himself in the longing for their missing pair, Dean nudges him in the ribs.

“Nobody is buying your ‘I need a week of vacation’ story, Dad. Like, not a single person.”

“That’s a shame. I thought I was rather convincing.”

Dean rolls his eyes again, somehow a fond gesture. “Everyone and their dog knows you’re helping with the search. Travers was just too nice to tell you.”

“Old Travers isn’t fooling anybody either.” Jules snorts. “He’s probably just as worried as the rest of us. He trained Spike and I, several years apart.”

Dean rubs his hands together. “So, where are we on the case? I hate that I have to go to school, but thanks for keeping me and Clark in the loop anyway.”

Greg opens his mouth to reply when the door bursts open and Leah tumbles in. She’s rumpled, bright with sweat. Jules immediately starts to attention; Wordy’s hand reaches for a gun that isn’t there anymore.

“I’m sorry, boss,” Leah pants. “I tried to stop them!”

‘Them’ becomes painful clear when three, suited men follow in Leah’s footsteps and enter the room. They’re not particularly tall or strange looking. Ordinary, the men could be invisible in a crowd, which is probably the whole point.

They fan out, eyes unreadable and cold.

“Which one of you is Jules Braddock?” asks the lead man, Asian, wearing an ear coil.

Jules stands to her full height. Her eyes crackle. “And who are you?”

“Agent Damien Cho.” He flips down a badge. “CSIS, International Relations Division.”

“CSIS?” Greg squints. “You stonewalled us when we tried to call. What are you doing here now?”

“_You’re_ Greg Parker.” Not a question.

Greg tries to read the man’s face and finds it a challenge. “I am.”

The three men exchange uneasy looks. _This _face is all wariness and mistrust, like Greg is a lion who might pounce on them. There might even be a touch of awe in there too.

When Cho turns back, he’s calm again, eyes sharp on Jules. “You will turn over any and all evidence collected in this investigation and cease your search effort at once. We’re taking over from here.”

Everyone’s jaws drop. Wordy’s shaking worsens.

Jules keeps her voice pitched low, probably for Sadie’s sake, but her face is a storm. “Excuse me?”

“This is currently no longer your jurisdiction,” says Cho.

“Not our jurisdiction?” Jules steps closer, very much in his personal space. “These are two _SRU _officers who’ve been taken. Now, you can assist—but we are lead.”

“That’s not your decision.” Cho’s voice isn’t harsh or cruel. Just…indifferent. It cuts Greg to the quick, much worse than if they were being bullied. “We’ll inform you if we find your men.”

Dean’s brows shoot high. “If? _If_?”

Greg still has his arm around his son and he squeezes the boy’s shoulder. The thought of Spike and Ed’s fate nestled in the hands of someone so impersonal, caring about the men as statistics and not as brothers, sons, family…

It’s torture.

Mute, dumbfounded, Winnie slides their reports and a flash drive across the desk to the men. Silent tears race down her cheeks.

“Dad! Dad, please.” Dean twists in his father’s embrace to look up at him, imploring. His eyes are swimming. “Do something!”

Cho answers, while his two colleagues begin carting off boxes and bags of evidence. “He can’t. It’s out of your hands now.”

And just like that, the agents leave like they were never even there. Five minutes, tops.

Greg watches the last box taken away, the lid shifted slightly to reveal something shiny inside. Gold, small, encased in black leather. Bloody thumbprints littering both.

Spike and Ed’s badges.

The door closes without one more ounce of fanfare, without a siren or a flashing light. Winnie sobs in an echo of the screaming inside Greg’s head.

They’re gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door to Spike’s ‘cell’ bursts open. Tattoo’s wild eyes appear, the whites of his eyes too bright after so much darkness. He scans the room, nodding when he sees Spike is still there, and slams the door.
> 
> Perhaps a little _too_ hard.
> 
> It bounces open.

‘I’m tired, I’m worn,  
My heart is heavy  
From the work it takes  
To keep on breathing.’

“Worn” ~ Tenth Avenue North

He doesn’t move much anymore.

He _can’t _move anymore.

Spike sprawls, slumped, in the corner. Chest propped enough to take the pressure off his panting lungs. He’s not fevered, exactly, but oxygen acquisition takes work. Breathing is a monumental effort that leaves Spike tired beyond belief.

He never knew it was possible to feel this drained.

Hunger pains stopped long ago, just a ball of slime where his stomach should be, and Spike can’t tell if he’s grateful or concerned about that. It doesn’t help that the whole building has a funny, sweet smell, almost like…

_You’re lucid dreaming, Spike. There’s no chocolate here. _

However much he wishes that were true. He’d kill for some dark, berry flavoured chocolate, like the kind Winnie drives thirty minutes to the sweet shop just to buy in bulk.

Unopened water bottles litter the floor in a macabre halo.

Spike knows better now.

After the first taunting, when Tattoo came down to check his pulse and mock his inability to move, with invasive shoves to his abdomen and cruel slaps, Spike has been left alone.

He hears their footsteps over his head every few hours. Ponytail and Tattoo converse in hushed voices during the blissful, pained moments of lucidity—

“Cut our losses…”

“No, we can still salvage him.”

“…He won’t want a man like that.”

“Put up more of a fight than the others…”

“…Can’t lose our investment now…”

Spike doesn’t even have the energy to speak. He swallows convulsively, lips cracked and flaking.

Sometimes, in the quieter moments, when Spike admits to himself that he’ll probably never make it out alive, he ponders the last thing he said to everyone.

He can’t remember with Wordy or Jules, except maybe that latest team barbecue where they bantered over old Academy stories…but he remembers sitting out on Greg’s new porch swing. Fireflies in the grass. Spike said something about promising to visit his classes for a lecture on cyber security.

_Greg pulls him under his arm. Laughing. “They’ll love you. Not as much as me, though.”_

Winnie, kissing him in her kitchen, whispering, _“you’re the best” _against his lips.

Dean, sleepy, hugging Spike around the middle and muttering into Spike’s sweatshirt about how drills make him tired.

Sam in the locker room, passing Sadie to Spike and remarking on what a natural he was.

Then with Ed…

Spike swallows again, this time to stop the sting of tears his body doesn’t have enough water to produce.

He can still feel the force of Ed’s screamed name vomiting up his rib cage, tearing at his heart. How primal, how _frenzied_ it had been.

He misses Ed. He misses them all.

_I’m sorry._

Spike is about to close his eyes, drifting, when there’s a commotion above, footsteps running. Shouts and the click of loaded pistols.

The door to Spike’s ‘cell’ bursts open. Tattoo’s wild eyes appear, the whites of his eyes too bright after so much darkness. He scans the room, nodding when he sees Spike is still there, and slams the door.

Perhaps a little _too_ hard.

It bounces open.

Spike squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again, just to be sure he’s not hallucinating.

_It worked. _Spike stares at the layers upon layers of medical tape. Creating a seal so thick, the latch can’t meet the hole. _It actually worked._

It’s still there when he opens his eyes again—an ajar door, sunlight spilling through the gap.

And Spike can’t move.

He almost laughs, because it’s funny in an absurd way. All that effort and now that he’s been dosed, he can’t even use his own successful escape plan.

_Come on, Spike. Get up. Just crawl for the stairs._

Spike tries to move and ends up sprawled on his side instead. He gasps, breaths uneven with the pressure now on his ribcage and diaphragm.

The stairs might as well be Everest. Scaling them is unfathomable in Spike’s mind. He can’t possibly drag himself all the way up before they come back.

_When has impossible ever stopped you before?_

The voice sounds suspiciously like Sam.

It’s enough for Spike.

His hand, trembling, latches onto the bottom stair.

* * *

Ed knows he has a concussion, probably a bad one. He _knows_ this. All his symptoms fit the checklist inside his head, match the profile every time he wakes to check his own heart rate and rough estimation of blood pressure.

Still, it doesn’t stop him from answering every time a blurry image of Greg appears, hands on his hips, with a shrewd look on that weathered face. It’s a look he’s seen so many times that it’s almost apropos for being locked in a deserted office space.

“Are you just going to lay there?” Greg always asks.

“You’re not real,” Ed always answers, because this Greg doesn’t have a cane or a limp.

“So?” Not-Greg shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”

“You always say you’re right.”

Greg smiles. “That’s because I am.” He toes at Ed’s prone form with his loafer. “You’ve had your rest. Spike needs you, come on.”

“Uh, Greg. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I can barely keep liquids down, let alone the stale food they’re giving me. Did I also mention the elephant sitting on my skull? Because there’s that.”

Not-Greg goes quiet for a moment. His image flutters, hazes. Now he’s in his uniform instead of plain clothes.

“You’re staying awake for longer,” he points out.

Ed’s lips mush. “True, but—”

“And you don’t have any amnesia, no memory loss.”

“No…” Ed shifts up onto his elbow. “Greg, they know not to come into the room. They feed me through a cat flap in the door. How am I supposed to get the jump if the door stays locked? And before you ask, it’s padlocked from the outside, meaning I can’t pick it.”

A wicked grin slicks over Greg’s face. He sniffs, tone nonchalant. “They want you and Spike alive, right? Probably? It would be a shame if you took a turn for the worse.”

Ed, amazed, just stares at the phantom creation of his mind.

“Is Spike okay?” he asks.

Not-Greg looks worried for the first time. “I don’t know that, Ed, because you don’t.”

“Right, right.” Ed rubs his aching temples.

He’s never experienced cranial pain this bad. Someone is carving his skull with a dull knife like a jack-o-lantern, not just a someone but a child.

Hacking.

Stabbing.

_Mushing. _

Does a charting scale exist like the one for earthquakes? Some seismic reading of one’s headache that can impart the seriousness of it to a physician?

Hello, sir, my headache is an eight-point-one with additional throbbing—

Greg clears his throat, circles his hand in that signature tic. “I know how you can find out though.”

_He’s right. Or…I’m right, I guess. There’s only one way to play this._

Not-Greg doesn’t go away when Ed pounds on the door.

He stays for Ed’s, “please, somebody! I c-can’t br-breathe!”

For Ed’s choking sounds and the foamy saliva he lets run down his chin.

For the hand he flails through the cat flap. Ed lets his tense arm slow down by increments until it is limp, unresponsive of the boot that kicks it.

“You alive in there?” someone barks.

Greg gives a jaunty wave. “Told you it would work!”

_Nobody likes a bragger._

“Why is everyone so sassy with me?”

_Because you’re easy to tease._

“Is he dying?” comes a second man’s voice. This one Ed doesn’t recognize.

The deeper man’s voice, the one who usually brings things for Ed and apparently empties the bucket when he’s unconscious, sounds more frantic about the situation. “I don’t know! You tell me—you’re the one who stole the food. What if he’s allergic to something?”

The sound of someone scrambling to open the lock is Ed’s favourite sound. It’s music. It competes with Izzy’s laugh for the best thing he’s ever heard.

“You ready, Eddie?”

_I hate it when you rhyme my name._

“You’re just so easy to tease.” Greg winks. “Don’t forget what’s in your pocket.”

_Way ahead of you. _Ed thumbs at the slim shape with his free hand, his left. _Two men might be hard to take down, though._

“You’ve got a better idea, team leader?”

_No, now shut up so I can focus._

Greg does, but not before laughing. Ed wonders what about this is humorous. Perhaps the irony of it all, stuck in a dismal place while everyone is out looking for them. Maybe Spike is already out and tracking his whereabouts.

Ed wouldn’t put it past the kid’s gifted brain. 

Ed often feels like he’s a step behind Spike, how his eyes get that pure spark and then he’s off at light speed, usually with an explanation that leaves Ed’s head spinning even more than it is now. He's a modern day Hermes, brain zooming around fast enough to rival Ed's bullets. 

The two men push Ed’s hand back into the room so the door can swing open. Ed works hard to remain a ragdoll, malleable and unresponsive.

“I think you killed him.”

The unfamiliar voice is outside the room, accompanied by a metallic shuffle. Ed knows this sound before the thought can even coalesce:

Rifle. Strap clipped over his shoulder.

That might be a problem.

“Me?” the deeper voice protests. It gets louder, closer, and Ed feels the man check his pulse under his jaw. “I’m not the one who’ll be explaining this to your rich buddy.”

“Ha! Calling him rich is like calling the Mississippi ‘long.’ You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

The higher voice turns away, like he’s bored or frustrated.

_Back turned. Now’s your chance._

Ed has to hand it to Not-Greg. He stays there, even behind Ed’s eyelids, until the very end.

Right until the millisecond window Ed has to surge up and wrap the tied, nylon boot laces around the man’s neck.

Ed gets the man on his knees, one hand clamped over his mouth. He’s blond, tall, hair in a loose bun.

Better yet? He’s out of view of the door.

The knot where both laces are tied together makes the man’s trip into the land of unconsciousness even faster. His neck bleeds a little where it digs in, but Ed is careful not to garrotte the man to death.

That minimal effort leaves Ed quivering, especially his arms when he silently lowers the unconscious man to the floor.

“Rook? Is he alive or not?”

Ed doesn’t waste his opportunity—he launches himself out the door and straight at the rifle man. Brunette, just as tall.

“Hey—!”

Ed wraps the shoelace garrotte around his neck too, knocking the rifle’s path away from his own stomach using an oblique kick to the knee. The rifle clatters to the floor, Brunette’s hands scratching at Ed.

This man puts up much more of a fight. A better trained one too. He wrenches one way and then the other. The motion is familiar, jogging Ed’s memory.

“You!” Ed shivers with fury. He growls. “You’re the one who hurt my friend!”

After that, the fight is over. Despite a concussion the size of Lake Eerie, Ed has the element of surprise and the much more volatile advantage of righteous anger.

The second man is out within thirty seconds.

Ed’s chest heaves with stress and emotion.

He glances around, seeing he’s in a strange looking living room. Grabbing some curtain cord ties off the window sash, he binds both men and locks them inside his room. Neither one has a cellphone on them, which Ed finds odd. He grabs the rifle off Brunette, his own service weapon. Ed traces it like an old friend. 

There’s also no key, but he doesn’t need it, simply latching the padlock on his way out. He takes the time to re-lace his boots, knowing he might need to move in a hurry.

After that, Ed just…stops.

Again, good training badgers at the door of his mind. Insistent, adrenaline screaming for urgency.

But Ed allows himself a moment to stand there and digest it all, quivers coursing through him and leaving him with the grace of a newborn foal.

When he does get going, it only takes him seconds to locate a flight of stairs going downwards. He’s forced to lean heavily on the wooden railing.

Out the passing windows, all he sees are trees and a few scraggly fields. There aren’t even any power lines, something that he notes after a moment of wondering what looks so wrong.

He makes it to the first, main floor of what looks to be an abandoned shop.

_Have I gone back in time?_

Not-Greg doesn’t re-appear, but Ed thinks he already knows what his friend would say.

_“Leave the science fiction to Spike, Eddie.”_

Only…only he can’t be standing in a building from this century. Maybe not even the last.

The cash register on the main floor has a crank handle and huge, typewriter-style buttons. A few empty barrels sit against the far wall, empty with a musty smell.

Like in the upstairs office, there are no electrical outlets or wires of any kind. Not even a landline telephone. No bathrooms or pipes.

The first floor is open concept, all one room except for what looks like a kitchen at the back.

_Bingo_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The little scene between Ed and Hallucination Greg was a blast to write!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did they take Spike? Did he escape long ago? Did they…maybe they decided to…
> 
> Ed’s sniper breathing falters.
> 
> “No,” he says out loud.
> 
> His mind won’t even entertain it. He will not look for a patch of dug up earth on this property, no matter how logical it is.

‘Think you’re on this road alone,  
Looking for a truth untold.  
Many times you’ve been close to breaking,  
Giving up and letting go—  
Something inside says it’s not over.’

“The Face” ~ RyanDan

Ed regains his strength in surges, and he’s experiencing one now. His vision sharpens, pain receding in the presence of new stimulus and the prospect of freedom.

He walks as fast as he can for the back room. It too is old fashioned, with a wash basin and a pump faucet. There’s evidence of mice and rodents in the chew marks on the table.

A canvas backpack hangs beside the wood stove. Ed snatches it, stuffing his kidnappers’ bananas and loaves of fresher bread inside, as much as will fit. He starts to grab four water bottles sitting on the table…when he sees a tiny hole in each one of the lids. 

Shaken by such a close call, Ed digs around until he finds some water bottles that are still sealed, lids untampered with.

He also grabs an apple peeling knife but can’t find more of their guns, no matter how much he roots through the cabinets.

Time to go. Ed feels the instinct as sure as he breathes.

The plan is simple, for being such a tactician.

_Locate Spike. Get so far away from here they’ll never find us. Preferably somewhere with a phone to call for help._

If he can’t do step one…he’ll…well…

Ed puts a hand to his chest. He can’t even imagine that scenario, leaving Spike behind. It’s logical, sure. Getting help and reinforcements actually _increases_ the likelihood of finding Spike.

But it’s wrong. Morally, he can’t do it.

There’s a back door off the kitchen and Ed chooses this route instead of the front door, just in case.

Stepping foot onto the grass after who knows how long inside that hovel makes Ed sigh. It’s a cathartic sound, maybe a little tremor filled, and he feels like he’s breathing properly for the first time in ages.

The air is filled with wafts of pine. A bird twitters somewhere off to his left, a chickadee.

Running, slightly hunched, Ed rounds the shop-out-of-time only to see _more_ anachronous buildings. There’s a whole set of them. Even an outhouse!

The largest one is at the center, a factory of some sort.

Ed keeps his rifle trained forward. A douse of something hot flashes down his neck, a rush of familiarity and comfort to be doing something he would be anyway, if this were a regular day.

He does a quick search through the factory floor, only to come up empty. Not a soul around.

It’s almost…too quiet.

Upon discovering an open basement door, Ed’s eyes widen.

Two black boots sit on the bottom step. There’s a bizarre stickiness around the latch too, webbing almost.

_Tape. It’s our standard issue roll of medical tape. He was here!_

But the tiny storage room is empty. Did they take him? Did he escape long ago? Did they…maybe they decided to…

Ed’s sniper breathing falters in a staccato rush.

“No,” he says out loud.

His mind won’t even entertain it. He will _not_ look for a patch of dug up earth on this property, no matter how logical it is.

Ed’s hopes, however, begin to dwindle. He scours the entire building and cannot find even a trace. He doesn’t call out, opting for stealth rather than the wider net of his voice.

His eyes are just beginning to betray him, burning, too shiny, when he starts up the dirt, service road and sees a foot sticking out of the bushes.

It’s not wearing any shoes. Nor is it moving.

Ed’s rifle is up before his next heartbeat, for there may be other people in on this kidnapping scheme and he doesn't want to find out the hard way, ambushed while caught in his head. He makes lots of noise, to tip the person off that if they are going to attack him, he won't go down easy and he knows they're there.

Upon closer inspection, what Ed sees is strange enough to make him lower the barrel. It’s the sock—stitched with tiny lightning bolts and speech bubbles. He squints. One of the little red bubbles contains giant, rounded letters that say _The Flash!_

His whole face crumples in a split second. Just like that.

He throws the rifle strap over his shoulder so he can use both arms and _sprint_ to that geeky comic sock.

“Spike!” Ed doesn’t care if anyone hears him now. “_Spike_!”

Crashing to his knees, he parts the tall grass.

And there, eyes closed, propped up against an oak tree, is one very pale and bloody-lipped Michelangelo Scarlatti.

His breaths whistle, reedy sounding. The other leg is flung out to the side, impossible to see through its disappearing act in the underbrush, like Spike fell down. Ed bows his head for just a moment, bowled over by relief so strong that it makes him physically dizzy while he pants out mindless words of thanks. Then Spike gives a soft groan.

Ed doesn’t waste any time, hands scrambling over Spike’s ribs—nothing broken—and trying to find the injury. Other than the bruises and swelling bloody patches along his face, there doesn’t seem to be any. This doesn't bode well, that perhaps the problem is something he can't see and therefore probably can't treat with basic survival first aid. They both desperately need a hospital, no matter what their conditions are.

He lifts the shirt to check for internal—

“No!” Spike comes awake in a flurry of motion. “No, don’, please!”

He swats Ed’s hands away and curls in on himself all in one go, protecting himself with a horrid kind of fine tuned practice. There’s a flinch in there too that cuts straight to Ed’s galloping heart.

“Spike—”

“No!” Spike’s eyes are furious. “Don’ want!”

Ed puts both hands up and leans away, even though his instincts scream at him to stay as close as possible. “Okay, easy.”

He makes a shushing sound in the back of his mouth and Spike unclenches, just a bit.

“Please,” Spike’s begging in his slurred way. “Please, Kyle, no.”

“Spike, it’s me. It’s Ed. Just us, buddy. I’m not going to hurt you and I’ll shoot anyone who does.” Ed’s palpitating pulse calms. Just the thought, the words themselves, are an offense, the mere suggestion that he would use violence on Spike unfathomable. “I would _never _hurt you.”

Spike doesn’t say anything further, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Ed forces himself to be patient, to wait out the mistrust, for he has no idea how Spike has been brutalized since they got here. He deserves to feel in control.

Then...

“Ed?” Spike asks in a teeny-tiny, barely there voice. It’s soaked with longing, a hope that’s been shattered over and over again.

Ed’s whole body shivers. It’s a gut reaction scraped from the deepest, arcane nether regions of his soul.

He reaches out before he can stop himself, palm on top of Spike’s hair. He strokes it front to back, then starts again. It’s primal, the demand to respond to that child’s plea.

Ed could no more resist it than lasso the moon.

“I’m right here,” he whispers. Even dirty, Spike’s hair is silky soft. Ed savours the feel of him, warm, alive, under his hand. “I’m right here, Spike, and I’m not leaving this place without you.”

Spike blinks and for the first time since Ed arrived, his eyes focus properly to zip around the trees as if to make sense of how he got here. He gasps a little, massaging his sternum.

Ed zeroes in on the motion. “Does your chest hurt?”

“Ed?” Spike says again, like he didn't hear this question at all. “You’re miles away.”

Ed shakes in earnest now, the war between steely rage and tenderness waging inside his body. That one statement is a bullet, shooting Ed straight between his ribs and galvanizing him to life all in one, a jump scare and a debilitating fury. 

“Squirt.” Ed cups Spike’s cheek with a quivering hand, mindful of all the blood. “I think they just drove you around for a while to make it seem like we were separated. I’ve been on the same property as you, fifty feet away, the whole time.”

Spike’s face doesn’t change for a beat and Ed has no idea what he might be thinking at all. Then a light bulb comes on. “Go’ out, Ed.”

“Yeah, bud, you got out.” Ed smiles and it makes him heady. His tensed muscles uncoil. “Good job.”

“Esc’ped the second time,” Spike insists. He looks proud with Ed’s praise. “They never saw the…the tape.”

Ed snickers. He gently probes Spike’s chest while nodding. “Can’t outsmart the great Scarlatti, huh? I saw that nice shiner you gave our tattooed friend.”

Spike shrugs, modest to the bitter end. “Got out. Tha’ss what matters. Was trying to find the paint van an’ hot wire it but I think it's hidden…”

Suddenly, he winces and sucks in a hissed breath between his teeth.

Ed spares himself a moment of guilt for causing the reaction before he continues his examination. “Having trouble breathing?”

“Yeah. F-feels heavy.”

“Where does it hurt?”

Spike swallows and Ed spies the cracked lips. “Everywhere. Even my _skin _hurts.”

Ed pauses in retrieving a water bottle, frowning. He’s assumed up to this point that Spike is drugged or concussed, which would make sense if he tried to escape and they wanted to subdue his efforts. But that doesn’t sound right.

Spike flinches when a muscle in his arm cramps up, then one his foot.

“You’re dehydrated.” Ed brings the bottle to his lips. “Here.”

Spike’s eyes go huge. “No! Can’t make me drink!”

He tugs away from Ed and Ed lets him, startled by the reaction. Spike has the most expressive face of their whole team, let alone the SRU.

It doesn’t disappoint now, filled alarm and terror.

Ed looks from the water bottle to Spike. “So they did dose you through the water.”

Spike nods, a quick one-two.

Struck with an idea, Ed puts that water bottle back and gets another one. He holds it out to Spike, who blanches further. “I think they used a syringe to inject the drug. Spike, these ones aren’t altered, probably our kidnappers’ own stock. See how there are no holes at the top? You probably didn't notice it with the basement so dark, as it's impossible to feel the difference without seeing the bottle.”

Spike has a lightning brain, even compromised. He calms enough to consider Ed’s words and turn the bottle around in dexterous fingers.

“The seal isn’t broken,” he says, hesitant. "And there aren't any holes."

“Yep. I wouldn’t lie to you.” Ed keeps his hands where Spike can see them. He doesn’t force the water on him, wanting to be the one safe thing Spike has right now. “Your choice. But I think you should drink or we’re not going to make the hike back to civilization.”

Spike must see the truth of that because he takes a few sips. Ed watches a vein flutter in his neck, completely unbridled and syncopated. It's odd to see on the normally healthy young man, usually rife with energy.

_I guess we can add irregular heartbeat to the growing list._

There’s an old memory pinging at the back of Ed’s mind, like he should be able to put the pieces together, but he can’t. Spike’s condition is a giant question mark. He makes a note to double check for a head wound.

“Are you okay?” Spike asks.

Ed must wait too long to reply, admittedly zoned out, because in the next breath Spike’s hands are fisted in his sweater.

“Ed?”

“I’m fine. Hey.” Ed clasps one of the hands over his chest. “Hey, easy. I’ve got a concussion and a nasty gash but this really nice SRU techie patched me up.”

He peppers his words with a fond smile and Spike relaxes.

"Worst call ever. Worst _day_ ever."

Shaking his head, Ed's brows go up. "Spike, I don't think that gambler-with-a-gun call was even real, and they probably made it up just to get us alone."

"I know, but it still sucks."

“Can't argue with that logic. You ready?” Ed asks, keeping his voice low. Like another old friend, having a job to do and someone to watch out for sets his head on straight even more, a comforting coat tucked around his frame.

Spike nods. “Let’s get out of here.”

Ed props his shoulder underneath Spike’s arm and counts to give some warning, a reverse echo of his earlier count down to ram open the tailor shop door. “On three: one…two…three!”

Together, they stumble to their feet. Spike sways a moment before Ed adjusts his grip so his right is holding Spike’s arm in place and his left is around Spike’s waist.

He notices Spike’s pants slip down an inch or so, the belt far too loose. Spike hitches them back up and cinches his belt to the last hole. Ed’s ears ring with heightened blood pressure and the regret of not garroting both men to death.

_They starved him. Bastards._

Spike follows his eyes and gives a wry smile. “Nothing like being kidnapped to lose the weight.”

“You don’t have any to lose.” Ed’s voice is millimeters close to being a snarl. “There’s a reason rookies call you our _beanpole_ whiz kid.”

The forest floor is going to be torture on Spike’s feet but Ed doesn’t want to risk it, going back for the tech’s boots. They begin moving at a snail’s pace, picking up speed thanks to Ed’s tracking of the clearest route through the brush.

“Nice socks, by the way.”

Spike laughs, more of a wheeze with how much effort he’s clearly putting into taking each breath. “They’re from Dean’s comic sock collection. Don’t tell him I stole a pair.”

“Your secret is safe with me. The Flash?”

“My favourite superhero.” Spike has to stop talking when his chest hitches.

“I can see why. He’s just like you.”

Spike makes a face, straining for breath. “Care to el-elaborate?”

Ed grins. He bodily lifts Spike’s tipsy frame over a dead log, riddled with thorns. “Fast. He’s a scientist who loves the gadgets. Works with the police department…adopted into a family by an older cop.”

Spike goes fire hydrant red and refuses both to look at Ed and grace him with an answer.

Ed’s enjoying himself now. “He’s also lanky as hell—you could use that guy for a lightning rod.”

Spike rolls his eyes.

Something strikes Ed for the first time. “Why did you leave your boots behind?”

“Oh.” Spike digs in his pocket and produces a mash of boot laces. “I m-made a garrote but didn’t end up needing it. Go figure.”

Ed doesn’t stop laughing about that one for nearly ten minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys found each other! It was a feelios trip to write.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Herculean fist punches the air straight out of Greg’s lungs.
> 
> The men in these photos don’t look right, their eyes blank and angry all at the same time. That isn’t what makes him do a double take, swallowing back bile—
> 
> They’re all firing on American troops. On their own countrymen.

‘A tattered photograph my pocket holds,  
I keep you secretly.  
I’ve studied every line,  
You’re etched upon my mind,  
For not a million soldiers  
Could take you from me.’

“My Heart With You” ~ The Rescues

“_Come alone, Parker_.”

“You know I will.”

“_No, I don’t, with how tight your little rag-tag team is rumoured to be. You’re infamous in law enforcement circles, you know that?_”

“Fifteen minutes,” Greg reiterates. “If I don’t see you by four, I’m gone.”

The other line goes dead. Greg sighs.

His house is quiet, Marina still asleep and Dean doing homework at the table. Greg convinced the other members of Team One, past and present, to go home for the night. Now, if only he could follow his own advice and sleep.

He sneaks down the stairs, noting Dean’s head pillowed on his arms, back rising and falling slowly. Out like a light.

The drive to the diner ends up taking closer to twenty minutes, even with the absurdly early morning hour and the fact it’s a Saturday.

Greg has been a cop in this city for over twenty years and even he has never heard of the ‘Poke Stoke Diner.’ It’s a hole in the wall, barely large enough to be called a cabin, and it’s in the middle of nowhere, near the abandoned dry docks.

Greg can hear the Lake even through the diner’s thin walls. Despite the hour, there are a few patrons eating breakfast. One man is nodding off into his coffee. Someone reads a paper at the booth, shoes tapping to the muzak.

And on one of the counter stools sits Director Hartford. Greg recognizes his salt and pepper hair, that matching beard, from his photo.

“What can I get you?” the waitress asks. Her hair is red, the same shade as her apron.

Greg waves. “Just coffee, please.”

“Greg.” Hartford takes a sip of what looks like green tea. “You Canadians make good pancakes.”

“It’s the syrup,” says Greg, sliding up next to him. “You’re eating the real stuff, not that synthetic garbage.”

Hartford looks impressed. He eyes the bottle on the counter. “First time in my life, then. Real maple syrup has a salty aftertaste I wasn’t expecting.”

Greg shakes his head. “Want to tell me what was so important that we had to meet in a rundown diner at four in the morning? How do you even know about this place?”

“You’d be surprised how many agents feel comfortable holding meetings here because it’s so unknown.” Hartford holds out his hand. “Hypothetically of course.”

Greg shakes his hand. “Of course.”

“I’m sorry about not contacting you sooner, as arranged,” says Hartford, and the act drops. He looks the way Greg feels—tired. A dried up, wrinkly apple. “My government took me off the case too. It’s all hush hush, which isn’t normal for these types of cases. I’m here unofficially.”

That’s a new one. Greg’s eyes widen. “Official story?”

“Officially…I’m taking a week of vacation. Thought I’d see your excellent city of Toronto.”

“Is that so?” A smile creeps over Greg before he can stop it. “A week of vacation, huh?”

Hartford leans towards him with a mock conspirator’s tone. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“We’re both just people who’ve lost friends.” Greg gets straight to the point. “The better question is: how are we going to get them back?”

Hartford watches the waitress, until she goes behind the kitchen door and they are relatively alone. He removes a small envelope from his jacket pocket.

“What I’m about to show you may be alarming. Prepare yourself.”

_Not what I want to hear. _Greg opens it anyway, steeling himself.

Inside is a series of photos, locations and agent names scrawled over the bottom. Some are taken in third world countries, others in high ranking European embassies.

A Herculean fist punches the air straight out of Greg’s lungs.

The men in these photos don’t look right, their eyes blank and angry all at the same time. That isn’t what makes him do a double take, swallowing back bile—

They’re all firing on American troops. On their own countrymen.

The crystalline images show the agents with AK-47s, teeth bared, taking head shots. Some of the photos are of those same agents moments later, dead.

“They’re good,” says Hartford. “These men are so well trained that we often can’t stop them, and when we do it’s with a high casualty rate. The perfect soldier for your enemy.”

Something shifts into place. Greg looks up, voice feather light. “What about the ones that survive?”

Hartford shows emotion for the first time, a lilt around his mouth and eyes hooded. He removes another photo from his pocket.

“Only one ever has. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Greg demands. “What does that—”

Hartford slides the photo across the counter. The man in this one is dead eyed, surrounded by agents in an interrogation room. So they _did _get him back on US soil, in custody.

Hartford rubs his forehead. “He was found murdered in his cell three days after this photo was taken.”

Greg’s mind sifts through that to the important point. “His cell? Wasn’t he reunited with his family?”

Hartford doesn’t say anything for a long time. Greg’s coffee goes cold, but judging by sludge at the bottom, he’s not sure he wants it anyway.

He does, however, steal a bite of Hartford’s pancakes. The man hardly notices, lost somewhere in his mind.

“Greg, I know this is going to sound very dramatic and Cold War, but the only way I can describe what happens to agents is brainwashing.”

The fork clatters to the counter. Greg’s shock blooms like a mushroom cloud. “Excuse me?”

“They’re taken and trained to work for enemy forces.” Hartford looks Greg straight in the eye. “This man had a wife and three children. We couldn’t get a word out of him when he came back, though he did try to attack our agents.”

Hartford’s lips press together, white, and then release. “He was a good friend.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg whispers, once he gets his reaction under control.

The director shakes himself into something more professional. “We tried to save him, to reprogram some of the fight responses. But it takes time, and our enemies got to him first.”

Greg runs a hand down his face. This is…this isn’t even remotely what he imagined.

How can good people completely forget who they are? He’s heard of it happening, of course, but the practice of brainwashing enemy combatants isn’t as common any more, mainly because ideology is harder to imprint on modern day people. First world people who live without constant fear of war.

And now they want to do the same thing. To _Spike and Ed._ Horror is the appropriate emotion, but he can’t wrap his head around it at all.

“My people are good,” says Greg, a weak protest even to his own ears. “Ed’s been in hostage situations before. So has Mike.”

“Greg, this is the first time they’ve taken someone who’s not an American operative. This is _also_ the first time they’ve taken SWAT.” Anticipation, a hunter before the kill, lurks in Hartford’s eyes. “They’re getting cocky, bold—and this might be our chance to trip them up in that hubris.”

“Our chance?”

“Like I said, you have the right to be a part of this.” Hartford closes his eyes briefly. “I need your help, all the help I can get, really.”

Greg mulls it over. “Do you know who the man with the wasp tattoo is?”

“He’s what linked your case and ours.” Hartford retrieves yet another piece of paper from his pocket, this one a faxed memo. “We don’t know his name—he’s careful to avoid camera angles for a full facial scan—but there’s a distinctive pattern to the ink that’s not American.”

This seems too good to be true. Greg’s eyes narrow. “How can you tell?”

Hartford taps the paper. “I had a colleague, an immigrant from Afghanistan, who recognized the pigment and strokes used. It’s a Middle Eastern tattoo artist who did it.”

“And you’ve followed up?”

“Of course,” says Hartford. “We scoured the continent for Middle Eastern artists. There are surprisingly few, because Sharia law forbids tattoos, and most are too clean to fit the profile. We interrogated several possibilities but came up empty.”

Greg’s heart kicks up a few notches. This might be it. Their chance to end it once and for all.

“Greg, you should know…once an agent goes missing, they usually turn up halfway around the world within the month.”

There’s a soft gasp, coming from Greg’s blind spot by the door. It catches him off guard and he jumpes even as he smiles, knowing exactly who it is before he even speaks. 

Greg wants to shake his head, to be mad, but all he feels is intense affection. “You can come out now, Dean.”

Sheepish, Dean pops around from behind the jukebox. “What gave me away?”

“You’re a mouth breather." Greg pins him with a shrewd, searching gaze. "And I’m your father—I could pick your breathing pattern out of a line up.”

Hartford eyes the sudden addition with surprise, halting his mad scramble to hide the photos from what he must have originally seen as a random civilian. He throws a confused look at Greg and Greg can't blame him one bit; their family can be nosy sometimes. 

He ignores the director, looking upwards for strength while turning around. “You too Jules, Sam.”

There's a beat of silence and nobody moves. Then Jules slowly lowers the newspaper concealing her face while Sam slides off the toque hiding his golden hair. They too stare at him, gobsmacked.

"How long have you known we were sitting here?" Jules finally blurts. 

Greg points, trying not to laugh. “That newspaper is from _yesterday_. I knew something was up the minute I walked in, though I wasn't exactly sure who it was until I noticed your boots—they still have a glitter kitty sticker on the bottom where Sadie was playing with the laces.”

Sam laughs for him. “Stealth is not our gift, apparently.”

“I told you to come alone, Parker,” says Hartford with a scowl.

“I did.” Greg crosses his arms. He glances again at Jules. “Dean was your watchdog, I’m guessing? I knew there had to be a reason he insisted on staying at my place instead of the dorm.”

“We just wanted to keep an eye on you, boss.” Jules looks at him a spear of anguish, with the same pain inside Greg’s gut.

“Or in case you did something stupid,” Sam adds, breaking the heartfelt moment. “Go lone wolf on us.”

Dean smirks at him. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“You’re such a brat.”

“That’s _also _rich coming from—”

Sam gets him in a headlock for a faux noogie. Dean’s bright giggles fill the diner and even Hartford can’t maintain an irritated facade at the sound. They all end up in the giant booth together, Greg sandwiched between Dean and Hartford, Sam and Jules across from them.

Jules holds Greg’s hand under the table.

Together, they pore over the photos and case notes.

“He’s right.” Sam taps the memo. “This is a Middle Eastern tattoo artist’s work. I’ve seen it before. Guys in our unit used to stop in at the local—illicit—shops and get them.”

“And you never hear chatter on them?” Jules asks again.

Hartford shakes his head. “They’re ghosts. They grab one of our agents and then there’s no footprint. No electronic trail. Not even a cellphone or credit card to track.”

“Until now.”

Everyone stops to look at Dean, who’s been content so far to silently lean against his father’s side.

“You guys said there was footage of the paint van,” Dean continues. “He hired Rook for this job specifically, right? A Canadian who knows the lay of the land.”

“True.” Jules cants her head. “We interviewed Rook’s uncle. He never got the van back. Rook said he’d found a job that meant he wouldn’t have to work for another eight months, if he didn’t want to. He left his cellphone behind.”

Hartford looks grim and Greg catches it. “You think this is a cover up, Director? To have a mastermind of the whole operation this rich?”

Hartford’s eyes circle the table. He looks overwhelmed to have such sincerity directed at him in one place. “Maybe. I’ve thought about that, why the US government would be stonewalling me and how this has to go so much higher than some gang connection. This is big. Really big. I've tried to bring it to the attention of my superiors, but they don't agree.”

Dean’s still shaking his head, eyes wide and insistent. A realization begins to dawn in them. “You can never track them on security cameras after a certain point, right?”

“Right.” Hartford draws the word out into two syllables. He leans around Greg to peer at this eager youth. “Sometimes we get lucky enough to see Mr. Tattoo driving on the interstate or stuffing our agent in a trunk. After that, nothing. Probably off to a private airstrip or safe house somewhere and flying over the Atlantic. Long gone.”

Dean stares at them all. “This job forced them to be different. They can’t fly Spike and Ed right away!”

Greg clasps his the nape of Dean’s neck and feels his pulse flying. “Okay, son. Why is it different?”

“Because we’re international territory.”

Jules and Sam and Greg do a three-way dance with their eyes, trying to put it together. Greg has been a cop for years, a detective for almost half that, and even he can't decode this whole fantastia.

Dean huffs, clearly waiting for them to get it. “Did any Toronto airstrips, even private or diplomatic ones, report a passenger with a bee tattoo?”

“No,” says Jules. “We checked that. They clearly drove into the US after grabbing Spike and Ed, since we set up road blocks within the hour on every other route leading from the gas station, their last known location.”

“Right.” Dean’s leg bounces. “And then Wordy tried cameras in every neighbouring province and US state.”

“We didn’t find anything, Dean.” Sam’s brow creases. “Not a trace of any vehicle or person passing through the border, not even a stolen or switched out vehicle with different plates.”

Dean’s eyes are shining now, excited. He waves his hands. “Don’t you see?”

“No.” Greg’s voice is dry. “We really don’t. Help an old man out.”

Dean calms a hair, leaning forward. “Where’s a place with roads but no cameras?”

He’s staring at Director Hartford, like the only American at this table should understand. Greg begins to form a suspicion.

_No way. No flipping way. _It’s so outrageous that Greg thinks it might be the truth. _They’ve been there this whole time because nobody ever thinks to look._

A light goes on in Sam’s face too. He quickly thumbs through his phone, pulling up maps and GPS routes, if there even are any.

Hartford just looks bewildered.

“Director,” says Dean, “this is a type of place you guys have but we don’t, except maybe in Manitoba. A place with little electricity and that, I’m assuming, you usually leave well enough alone. It would be the perfect place to hide two men you just abducted.”

Jules looks wary too, but her eyes grow big. “You can’t _seriously_ be suggesting that they…”

At last, Hartford goes pale. “Mr. Parker, it would be ludicrous for anyone, let alone career criminals like Rook and his bee necked friend, to seek asylum there. They don’t harbour fugitives. And people throughout history have tried, believe me.”

The side of Dean’s mouth quirks up. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

“We can’t,” Sam argues. “Legally, we’re locked out.”

Greg catches some of the thrill swirling through his son. If one crazy plan worked for criminals, why shouldn’t it work for them?

He smiles at Jules. “How do you and Dean feel about a little road trip?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had the joy of making my own maple syrup and sometimes it really does have a salty aftertaste. I'd love to know the science behind it, if any of you knowledgeable people know.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike lurches to the side. Ed doesn’t realize he’s lightheaded until his knees buckle again. His eyes roll up into his skull.
> 
> Ed falls to his knees. “Spike? Spike!”

‘Tell me when you’ve had enough  
And I will carry you through,  
Cause if two flames go out  
They stay the same.’

“Follow You Down” ~ Lights

Night falls faster than either of them expect. One plus side of that? Ed can track headlights through the pitch black.

He’s careful to keep them parallel to the road but completely masked by the trees. Anyone looking in with a flashlight won’t catch them, especially with the slivered, crescent moon.

“Tha’ss the second time they’ve driven past,” says Spike. His choked breathing is the loudest sound. Even forest animals are quiet for the night, which is a huge relief considering Ed knows he heard a pack of wolves in the distance at one point, until they wandered away. “They’re definitely driving the van.”

It’s cold, cold enough to see their breaths, and yet Ed is the only one shivering now. He tries not to dwell on that. They’ve walked for hours. Long enough for the moon to wane and morning to feel closer.

For a while, Spike's symptoms were predictable: increased heart rate, shivering, sweats, like a particularly violent bout of the flu...but now they don't match anything Ed can think of. The tech is pale to the point of vampiric, nauseous, ridden with bubbles of pain through the larger muscles in his body. His breathing is so shallow that sometimes Ed can hear the individual pop of fluid crackling when he exhales. Even Ed, with a severe concussion, started to feel the stirrings of hunger two hours ago and ate some of the bread. Spike, however, won’t touch a thing.

Ed tries not to dwell on that either. 

“Come on.” He jostles Spike, to keep him talking in their hushed murmur. He picks up their discussion from earlier. “If Greg is Superman, what does that make me?”

Spike huffs, laughing, and it bounces off Ed’s ribs. “You’ve got the angry vigilante down pat. You’re definitely Bruce Wayne in his later years. Once you’ve adopted a bunch of problem children.”

Ed smiles. “Not a stretch with you lot running around and giving me heart attacks every five minutes.”

"I mean, you love the cool toys, you dress mostly in black, have a gaggle of loyal friends you can boss around, and you only smile on special occasions..."

"Hey now." Ed playfully nudges him, careful to do it far away from his diaphragm or anything important for breathing. "I smile all the time. I'm a shining example of good work life balance, including knowing when to crack a joke."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

"Are you just sassing me because we're off the clock?"

"Gotta get my shots in some time."

Ed's smile grows, when he spies the glint in Spike's eye. Messing with Spike seems to be keeping him alert, and it has the added benefit of being endless fun for Ed. "If I was Bruce Wayne and you were The Flash, that means I could fire you right now."

Spike looks scandalized. "You're confusing two comic books cities. Barry Allen works as a forensic scientist for Central City and Bruce Wayne is Gotham. Get your characters straight."

"Yeah, but he could fire him from the Justice League."

Spike goes to reply, probably with a long winded explanation to match his equally betrayed face, when his abdomen does a funny ripple under Ed’s hands. It feels almost like seaweed against Ed's skin, the undulation of water on a pliable surface and for a brief moment, Ed has no idea what's happening or what this singularly bizarre sensation means. Then Spike's knees fold without a second’s notice, all in one puppet-snipped-from-its-strings motion. Ed barely catches him on the descent.

“Hey, Spike, where does it—”

Spike falls onto his hands, retching. It’s violent, almost as if his body is attacking him from the inside out.

“…Hurt.” Ed spreads his fingers over Spike’s chest, bracing him from behind so his arms don't give out. His other strokes Spike’s forehead in a feeble attempt at comfort.

Spike goes limp and Ed flips him over, cradled in his left arm. Spike is mercifully awake, but even in the gloom, Ed sees that his lips are the wrong colour. Too dark, too blue for that milky face. Blood stains his teeth, the colour of reddened coffee grounds.

Like both feet on the tarmac after a flight, Ed’s brain finally steadies and it clicks. He grimaces. “Spike. These aren’t drug symptoms at all—I think you’ve been poisoned.”

“Shouldn’t I be dead?” Spike wheezes.

“Not all poisons are fatal,” Ed points out. “I’m sorry, Spike, but these fit a rat poison case we had once, in my early years.”

Spike’s own brain catches up. “It might explain the muscle spasms.”

_But not the breathing problems_, Ed thinks, worried all over again. He can’t think of any poison that fits this MO.

Spike is drained from this latest vomiting episode. His nose bleeds sluggishly, the pressure bursting a blood vessel or two, and his eyes roam, listless. The pain, however, keeps Spike too alert, enough that it’s a hand squeezed around Ed’s heart. He almost longs for the drunken behaviour ketamine or a drug would elicit, just so Spike wouldn’t remember it.

They walk for a few more hours. Ed sees things more clearly, the sun rising far off.

Spike sounds weary, and even then only when Ed can get him to talk. His chatter dwindles into nothing. It’s somehow more nerve wracking than the rambling.

“That’s rude. Don’t leave a guy hanging,” Ed prompts. It’s been a while since Spike’s complaining about a lack of power lines and theories as to where in Ontario they are. “This is gripping stuff. Spike?”

Spike lurches to the side. Ed doesn’t realize he’s lightheaded until his knees buckle again. His eyes roll up into his skull.

Ed falls to his knees. “Spike? Spike!”

Spike’s eyes flutter open after a few taps to his cheek. He looks up at Ed with a squint. “Everything hurts, Ed.”

“I know, son. I know it does.”

It’s not a professional tone and not even remotely a professional title of address, but right now this doesn’t feel like work. Right now Ed isn’t Spike’s team leader. He’s a fellow human, a friend, one who loves this kid very much.

Every minute they spend lost in the woods, both deteriorating with each step, is another pound added to Ed's shoulder. Shame is a ten ton lodestone breaking his back, making him more and more aware of how inadequate he is to save them from this situation. They're running out of options. Ed silently panics about all of this while rubbing the side of Spike's neck with his thumb. 

“I…’m sorry.”

Ed startles and refocuses. “For what, bud?”

Spike does a sort of reverse cough, suction sound. Ed vaguely notes his feet are bleeding, completely shredded. “Can’ get up. You gotta go.”

“Go?” Ed feels genuinely in the dark. Where is there to go in such a place? They're already sort of lost, something both know and neither will admit. “What are you talking about?”

“Leave me here. Go for help, find somebody.”

Ed is speechless, gawking.

“Please, Ed.” Spike grips his arm. “_Go._ I’ll slow you down. ‘M gonna get us killed and...and one of us deserves to live through this.”

That’s the nail in the coffin, the final tally on a board filled with the marks of Ed's failure. 

Ed doesn’t hesitate to swing Spike up into a bridal carry and start walking, determined to do something, _anything_ to make this better. His rifle bounces against the backpack.

Normally he’d do a fireman hold, but the prospect of not being able to see Spike’s face is wretched. He can’t bring himself to be separated, even in that miniscule way. It would also put too much pressure on Spike’s already agonized stomach.

If it were Jules, she never would allow the concession of help. She’d already have punched her way out of Ed’s arms, swearing up a storm. Any of the other guys would be too heavy.

Spike is hollow boned, comparatively. Always the lightest male on weighing day at the SRU, Spike is the only one besides Leah demoted to Jules’ weight category.

He’s touchy about it sometimes. Ed prepares himself for the protest and squirms to get down.

But Spike just looks around from the new vantage and rubs at his chest. “Ed—”

“Now you listen here, Scarlatti.” Ed too feels lightheaded but he pushes through it. The frustration helps wake him up. “If you think I’m going to toss you away in the forest after I survived being locked in a cell for hours just for the _express purpose _of finding you, you’re an idiot.”

“I’ss not good strategy.”

“I don’t care,” says Ed, and means it with every ounce of his being. “Because I’m not a tactician tonight. I’m your friend. And I’ll never get a good night’s sleep for the rest of my life if I abandon you here.”

Spike is quiet, though it's a thinking kind of quiet, populated by frowns and troubled eyes. His muscles continue to spasm under Ed’s hands. The sheer amount of pain he must be in is staggering and yet he doesn’t make a sound.

There’s a junction of veins at the back of Spike’s knees, and Ed can feel his tachy heartbeat even through the fabric.

Skip…thudthudthud…stop…skip…thudthud…

Then—“Tonight? It’s morning, Ed.”

Ed nearly falls over at the rush of affection, buzzing clear through to his feet. He thinks he might be giddy with relief. “Trust you to focus on the most technical and unemotional part of that sentence.”

“I’ss true.”

“Yeah, sure. Now shut up so I can focus.” Ed marvels that he’s having the exact same sort of discussion with Spike that he had with Not-Greg. He could use Greg right about now. He’d know the right thing to say, if not to make this all better, then at least to make them feel less alone. 

Spike’s lips curve up in a shy smile. He patiently takes a thin breath just to say, “You’ve got the monopoly on Bruces.”

Ed is concussed. Dehydrated. Probably bleeding somewhere along the inside of his cranium, with blood sugar so low he shakes at a stand still. He can’t make heads or tails of that at all, so sue him.

Spike must see his confusion. “On the drug bust, with the bomb, when I called you that. Now we joke all th-the time that you’re Bruce Willis.”

“Behind my back?” Ed fights an amused expression, going for something stern.

“Uh.” Spike blinks. “Maybe? Sorry.”

Ed squeezes him closer. “I’m teasing you. It’s a compliment. I love _Die Hard_, but only if I get that tech whiz on my side for the movie instead of against me.”

Spike winces, thumbing his shoulder this time. “Deal.”

He starts to say something else but isn’t that odd? Ed sees that Spike’s lips are moving…however, everything is a tidal wave of white noise. He’s never experienced anything quite like it.

Ed is, admittedly, kind of fascinated by the spectacle.

Until Spike’s eyes widen. His mouth moves sharply and that can't be good. This shape, even without sound, Ed knows. Spike’s done it lots of time on calls when they’re at a distance from each other. The wide, long, and single syllable vowel is topped off by a quick consonant, barely a flick of the tongue.

_Oh. Ha. That’s my name. _


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smell of rotting leaves and tacky sap, coupled with Ed’s particular musk and the oil from his rifle, puts Spike at ease in seconds.
> 
> These smells are the SRU, Wordy’s cookouts, and raking maple leaves in Greg’s back yard.
> 
> _Safe_, they say.

‘When darkness comes upon you  
And covers you with fear and shame,  
Be still and know that I’m with you  
And I will say your name.’

“Be Still” ~ The Fray

“Ed? Whatcha doing?”

Spike doesn’t realize something’s wrong until Ed stops walking. That in itself isn’t entirely strange; they’ve taken lots of micro breaks since this evil version of a woodland trek started. Bathroom trips against a tree, stolen minutes when they share the water bottles, crouching down to avoid the van’s pass. More arguing over whether Ed would be justified to fire Spike if they were a band of superheroes. 

But Ed’s skin isn’t flushed anymore. His eyelids slide and flurry.

“Ed?”

He starts to sway and it rolls up into Spike's stomach, along with a sudden zing of adrenaline. They’re going down…

“Ed!”

At the very last second, intuition saves Spike his own concussion—he shoots out an arm to brace his fall. It's a messy spill, hitting the ground hard and then rolling to protect his head, just like with the basement stairs. His left palm rips against a stump, but better his hand than his scalp.

They’re thrown apart by Ed’s swan dive and Spike is scared to find that his legs are shaking too much to stand. Once the world stops spinning, he struggles to figure out how to move. In the end, all he can do is army crawl up to the too-slow lilt of Ed’s chest.

It’s the eighth wonder of the world: Ed is still awake. He hasn’t passed out.

His eyes blink up at the foliage overhead with obvious puzzlement, as if to ask when the ground became the sky. Not in shock, but pretty close.

“Give a guy some warning next time.” Spike holds the man’s neck while turning it. “I’m just checking on that head wound, Ed. Okay?”

He gets no reply. Spike is scared for an entirely different reason.

He makes sure his hand is between Ed’s cheek and the leafy ground. What Spike sees, even if he wasn’t a trained first responder, does not inspire confidence. The bandage has been re-dressed at some point, but it still looks old. Spots of blood decorate the tips.

_Needs stitches after all._

“You’ve lost too much blood,” Spike rambles. “Not to mention that splitting headache you think I haven’t noticed. What is it with you and the macho stereotype anyway? Nobody buys it. I saw you cry that time Izzy handed you a drawing of her beloved giraffe stuffie. It’s over, man.”

Ed twitches at Izzy’s name.

“Ed? Can you hear me?”

Spike pats him down for injury and is relieved to find none. Just some new bruises on his shoulder, where he fell against the gun. Their heart rates are wildly different, Ed's a bluesy kick drum pumping lazily along and Spike's a snare rat-a-tat-tatting in faulty rhythms. Sometimes he'll physically feel the pause, the tachy gap where a beat should go, against the artery in his throat.

Spike closes his eyes, hand on Ed’s chest. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like feeling so helpless, with no idea why they were taken in the first place. “It’s a miracle that thing didn’t go off.”

“S’fty…”

Spike jumps. “What was that, Ed?”

“Safety is…on.”

“Of course it is, Mr. Prepared For Everything.” Spike can’t quite find it in himself to smile, though his voice sounds upbeat, at least. You get points for faking it, Spike figures. “You alright? Wait, stupid question. I have a better one. You gonna pass out on me?”

Ed’s feverish eyes pick a spot—Spike’s left ear—and stay there. “Sorry, Spike. Adrenaline crash.”

“That makes two of us.” Yet another bubble of pain pops in Spike’s hip. Then one in his back. He grits his teeth, alight with that shackled feeling of someone who's run out of choices. “We can’t keep doing this, Ed.”

Ed gazes back at him.

“Why haven’t we seen another building?” Spike insists. He’s furious about this, suddenly. “It doesn’t make any sense! No power lines, no other cars! Not even a summer cottage. Where _are_ we?”

Spike hiccups on a fiery breath. He knows better, when it comes to talking. Too much, too fast…toomuchtoomuchtoomuch.

His lungs feel thick, coated with honey, sticky and sweet and awful. Breathing through a brick wall would be easier.

In all the textbooks in all the SRU archives that he’s read, Spike has zero frame of reference for what this is. It’s not a substance his teachers ever expected him to encounter on the streets of Toronto, clearly.

He wishes dearly they had painkillers, for both he and Ed.

Right on cue, Ed groans and runs a loose hand over his head. “Bulldozer in my brain.”

“Aren’t we a winning pair?”

Spike’s arms tremble under the strain of keeping his body upright. Small dignity after how vulnerable they’ve seen each other, but he refuses to collapse, belly flop, in front of Ed.

Ed catches it immediately. He takes a few steadying breaths and his face does that signature retreat, which says he’s made up his mind about something.

“Here’s the deal.” After a few skittering attempts and with Spike’s help, Ed makes it up to his knees. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t take another step and the sunrise is hurting my eyes. Time to hunker down.”

Cool relief rinses through Spike. He hasn’t slept properly in at least…well, too long. They’re no good against attackers anyway if they can’t even stand up, let alone brace for a shoot out.

The sound of Ed shucking the backpack and unclipping his rifle is such a familiar, comforting sound, as if they're out on a call that just happens to be in a rural area, that Spike closes his eyes without a second thought. He can imagine that it's simply a dawn shift, Winnie in his ear, Jules interviewing a suspect, Leah talking down someone with a weapon. A flash of pain ruins the illusion and Spike clams his hand back and forth. His palm bleeds, sluggish, gummy between his fingers.

Still, exhaustion wins out. He moves to curl up right then and there when a large hand bodily flips him onto his back.

“Ed, I thought we were sleeping. What are you—”

“Come here, Barry Allen.”

Spike shuffles around to see Ed against a nearby maple tree. It’s at the bottom of a little hollow, tiny, but impossible to see even from five feet away. A nest, if you will. Ed sweeps leaves over himself until he’s nearly submerged, both for concealment and insulation.

Then he opens his arms without a second's hesitation. One hand holds a banana.

Spike sighs and it steams off into the hovering twilight. “Not getting out of this, am I?”

“Nope.” Ed doesn’t look one bit self conscious. “I’m cold. You’re making me suffer by stalling. Hustle, Scarlatti.”

Spike drags himself over. He totally does not grumble, especially when Ed reaches out and yanks him the rest of the way in with a careful hand around his bicep. He seems disturbed by the minor hand injury, tutting over it and humming a frustrated note. He tears off a two inch strip of his T-shirt’s hem and knots it around Spike’s palm. 

"Sorry about that."

"It isn't your fault you have a concussion and it made you faint. We'll blame the whole thing on Tattoo, for giving it to you." There’s something mesmerizing about watching the bleeding slow down and then stop, clotting. Spike pokes at it. “Thanks.”

“Here.” Ed peels the banana for him and hands it over.

Spike accepts a few bites of the banana, but only once Ed has his fill too.

“Feel nauseous?” Ed asks.

While the persistent, ship-in-a-tempest roll of Spike’s stomach lingers, it doesn’t intensify any. “I think it’ll stick.”

“Good. You need it. Lean back, bud.”

Ed folds his arms across Spike’s chest. Spike knows it's coming, can mentally picture it, but he still stiffens, tense. His heartbeat goes through the roof.

In truth, he’s still not over Kyle Hurley, the instinctive reaction to a larger man’s hands on his body. Sometimes they would hit or strangle or shove.

But he knows these hands. Knows them with his eyes closed. They’ve never hurt him, only used for comfort and healing and direction. They’ve pulled him off ledges, backed him into a wall to avoid bullets, hugged him close after a bomb threat.

Ed doesn’t say anything, though his grip loosens in response. He eases it back, letting Spike acclimatize to the touch. His arms are light enough that Spike can throw them off if he wants.

He doesn’t.

It’s darker here, in the hollow where sun can’t reach yet. The smell of rotting leaves and tacky sap, coupled with Ed’s particular musk and the oil from his rifle, puts Spike at ease in seconds.

These smells are the SRU, Wordy’s cookouts, and raking maple leaves in Greg’s back yard.

_Safe_, they say.

Being slightly shorter, his head rests on Ed’s right shoulder, legs ending at the same length. Ed makes sure his calves are on top of Spike’s socked feet for warmth. He also coats Spike with the leftover leaves until only their heads remain visible. When he curls around them, his chin is propped on Spike’s left shoulder.

It’s…secretly rather nice. In a ‘if we’re going to die, at least it’s with people we trust’ kind of way.

The slightly-upright position also makes it easier to breathe. Ed must realize this, his hand rubbing circles on Spike’s chest. Ed is very much awake, in the sense that all of his attention, however much he has to spare, is on keeping his charge relaxed.

“Clever survival trick with the leaves, Dr. Kimble,” Spike whispers. Now he’s smiling.

Ed’s chest rumbles at the base of Spike’s neck. “If you think I learned that from a 90’s crime thriller, I pity you. And whoever taught you basic survival training at the Academy.”

“Romans and woods, I tell you.” Spike closes his eyes. “There’s totally a spider crawling on my hand down there. If I get one in my mouth, you owe me.”

“Mhmm.”

It’s a non answer. One that again buzzes through Spike’s back. There’s humour in the sound, and Spike knows he should figure out what’s so funny, but he can’t seem to open his eyes.

“…‘m I hurting you?”

Ed’s arms tighten. “No, bud. Not a bit. I could play flour toss with your scrawny butt. You’re not hurting me.”

Spike’s vertigo morphs from distress to something lulling. If he focuses just right, he can feel the faint radar ping of Ed’s pulse where his elbow brackets Spike’s rib cage, along with the accordion press of his diaphragm in the hollow of Spike’s back.

“Thanks, Ed. For comin’ and finding me.”

“Thank _you_ for patching me up and protecting me while I was out. That must have been harrowing.”

_It was. I’m never letting you out of my sight again._

“You can go to sleep, Spike. I’ll keep watch for a bit.”

“Mmm.” Belly half full, birds beginning to sing overhead, Spike can almost imagine they’re on one of Sam’s spur of the moment camping trips. Fireflies over the water while Ed plays that raggedy guitar and Greg tries to catch a fish. “Hey, Ed?”

“Go to _sleep_, Spike.”

Spike ignores him. “Think someone’s coming for us?”

Ed is quiet. His arms go tighter, if possible, with a little jolt of something too fast to name. It’s constricting, but Spike doesn’t protest, as it seems more for Ed’s benefit than his.

The sound of the van passes again, going slow this time. Both men hold their breath.

After a minute or two of silence, Spike taps Ed’s knee. “Ed?”

“Sshh.” It’s meant to be a soothing sound, Ed patting his chest with a slight rock. “I think…I think we’d better keep up our strength and start making a plan. Okay? Just in case no one does and we're on our own to get home.”

For some reason, this is the first time Spike is shot with real homesickness. It bursts over him with fireworks, rockets, church bells, the whole nine yards. Ed’s gentle tone reminds Spike of tough calls and how they follow up with him after.

He wants the command truck. He wants his _team_. He wants Greg’s lousy poker face and Winnie’s Caribbean cooking and Sam roping him into ever-elaborate schemes to impress his wife on date night.

He must make some sort of noise because Ed’s lips are closer to his ear. “Sshh. We’re safe for now, Spike. I’m not leaving you. I’m sorry this is happening so soon after Kyle.”

“’S not your fault.”

A funny, static sensation flutters along Spike’s shoulder. Ed’s breathing goes shallow. “We’ll face this together, however it plays out.”

“Ditto, Gerard.”

There’s a poke of ribs along Spike’s spine, like Ed’s trying not to laugh. His lips are still shaking. “I thought I was Kimble?”

“Oh no, I take it back. He’s definitely Greg, with the complete inability to turn a blind eye on someone who needs help, regardless of how it might affect his own safety or comfort. Gerard, with the refusal to give up on a case and bark at everybody in the immediate vicinity while doing it, is you to a T. Plus he wears the cool vests.”

“Does that make you Noah Newman?”

Spike lifts a brow, impressed with Ed’s memory. “I’m honoured, except that he dies in the sequel, shot by Robert Downey Jr.”

“Spoiler.”

“That movie came out over twenty years ago!”

Ed’s definitely laughing. Better than the almost-crying, and Spike feels a smug sense of victory about it. They’re both avoiding the obvious—Spike can't take a full breath without coughing up blood and Ed sways every so often, eyes dilated at uneven levels—but they’re mutually indulgent and they need this.

“Sleep. _Now_, Michelangelo.”

“So bossy.” Spike swallows down the hurt, the fear, and tries to relax. It gets easier when Ed strokes his stuttering sternum. It bucks from the pain and laboured breathing.

“Well, you said I’m Gerard,” Ed murmurs. “I’m in charge and therefore allowed.”

“Does this mean I get to grow a ponytail?”

The last thing Spike feels is Ed’s swat to his shoulder. “Absolutely not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favourite chapters to write and a huge motif that will return later in the story.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean _screams_ and that sends something inside Jules into overdrive. They’re threatening her family, one of their _kids_.
> 
> _CRACK_!

‘Standing by the wall,  
The guns shot above our heads  
As though nothing could fall—  
And the shame was on the other side.’

“Heroes” ~ Gang of Youths (David Bowie)

This is the most insane thing Jules has ever done, hands down.

And that’s saying something.

It even rivals the time she got drunk at a frat party and woke up with a butterfly tattoo, passed out on a pool table, which created her instinct to sleep on high surfaces that she still carries to this day. Or the time she shoplifted a pair of no name brand high heels on a teenage dare.

She gave them back within the hour but _still_.

Her stomach is a rollercoaster swirl, up and down the crests of anxiety and anticipation in equal measures. Because this isn’t just jeopardizing her life and career.

They’re all on the line.

The only thing keeping Jules’ foot on the pedal, even speeding a little, is the mental image of Spike or Ed driving this same car.

They’d do the exact same thing if it was her missing in another country. Without hesitation.

Green Trans Canada signs appear, warning of the upcoming border crossing station. Speed limit signs change from kilometres to miles. She glances in her rear view mirror at the little camping trailer hitched to her car, bought at a junkyard that very morning.

The curtains are all drawn.

“You ready?” Jules asks.

Looking across to the passenger’s side, she immediately regrets her choice of words.

Not for the first time, she has to remind herself that this isn’t a co-worker. He isn’t an equal, not yet anyway. He needs reassurance, not cold shop talk.

Dean scrubs at his eyes in that shared Parker tic. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“There’s still time to back out,” Jules offers, also not for the first time. She almost wishes he’d take her up on it. “You have the most to lose out of all of us, a whole career ahead that you don’t want to throw away.”

“You sure it’ll go down the way Dad predicted?” Dean’s voice is young, unsure. “CSIS really has a bulletin out on you?”

Jules flexes her hands on the wheel. They ache with tension already. “Yes. We’re going to have to act fast before they try to detain us for questioning and send us back.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“If you’ve got a better idea,” says Jules, keeping her tone light, “I’d love to hear it.”

Dean is dressed in a jacket and jeans, casual. The look of a young, college age man on his day off and heading to the States for a camping trip. He fiddles with both their passports in sweaty hands.

Jules raises a brow at him but lets him think it over.

“No.” Dean makes eye contact with her. Determined, brown irises sparking like Greg’s do sometimes. “I don’t want to come home without them.”

“We tried it the legal way,” says Jules, in a bid to bolster his nerve. “Director Hartford said he had a tip for the FBI and they wouldn’t listen. CSIS didn’t either, thinking they were long gone, not in our backyard.”

Something shifts in Dean’s eyes. He still looks scared, terrified even. But there’s a hint of the mature man lurking underneath the teenage boy.

“What if they’re right?” Dean asks. “What if Spike and Ed _are _long gone? What if my hunch is wrong?”

Jules reaches across the stick to run her fingers through curls just beginning to regrow at the back of his neck. “Then we’ll find them. You hear me?”

The vengeful outlaw look softens into something human. Dean smiles gratefully at her. Heaven help the men who dare get between Dean and his brother. Jules wonders what he’ll do when they find the men responsible, if there will be anything left after the team gets through with them. 

Their checkpoint appears ahead.

“Do you wish you had your service weapon?” Dean asks, catching her off guard.

Jules lights up in a wicked smirk. “I don’t need a gun for this.”

Dean slips his earbuds in to play the bored teenager part. “Showtime.”

“You remember the plan?”

He scoffs. “We have a plan?”

Jules quirks her head and can’t help but grin. “Touché.”

There’s a lineup at Customs with the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend approaching in a week and families commuting to be with each other.

Jules shows no outward sign of distress, but she feels a thick line of sweat collect in the hollow of her spine. Dean bops his head to music that isn’t there.

He’s pale.

The border agent, a burly blonde, waves Jules forward. Their turn.

Jules rolls down the window, trying on her most charming smile. “Hey there!”

The woman nods without looking up from her clipboard. “Identification?”

_Harmless Canadian routine will not work—duly noted. _

“Hon?” Jules prompts Dean.

Dean pretends not to hear her and she taps his shoulder.

“Oh.” He pulls out one earbud. “Sorry. Here.”

Jules hands their passports to the border agent. She doesn’t look impressed or smile, which is par for the course at these stops. Jules taps her thumbs on the wheel. She’s _keenly_ aware of the rifle propped inside the gate door and a Glock strapped to the agent’s hip.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jules watches the woman step back inside her booth and swipe their passports. She's staring at the clipboard and her list of questions more than anything, not the screen, and it's a huge blessing that Jules can't believe is being dropped in their laps.

_Don’t check the name. Don’t check the name. Please don’t look._

The woman comes out and Jules breathes a silent sigh of relief. Dean’s fingers uncurl from their clamp around his phone.

“Any firearms or alcohol to declare?” the agent asks in a bored voice.

“No, ma’am.” 

The woman jots that down and then looks up. “Reason for visiting the States?”

“Camping trip,” says Jules. “We’re meeting up with Dean’s family. They’re flying in from Dallas.”

The woman squints.

Jules holds her breath.

“That’s right,” says the agent. “You’re a dual citizen, Mr. Parker. Relation to Ms. Braddock?”

“A family friend.” Jules pats Dean’s hand for effect. “I’m passing through anyway and volunteered to drop him off.”

The agent is quiet for a moment. Then something in her face clears. “The Academy let you out of classes early to be with family, huh?”

Dean gives her a thumbs up and Jules wants to slap the cheesy motion down. “Perks of your father being Greg Parker.”

The woman’s brows rise up lightning fast. Jules wonders for the first time if Greg’s notoriety in law enforcement circles may not be to their benefit.

“You’re both cops!” The woman actually smiles a little. The knowledge seems to relax her so Jules nods. “Well, I’ll be. We get your Organized Crime team through here all the time. Nice guys.”

Jules wants to collapse in a puddle of relief. No daring feats needed today. “I’ll be sure to let them know when I get back.”

The agent walks away and Dean lets out a wailing kind of sigh when she’s out of earshot.

Jules is just about to shift out of park when a uniformed man comes running to the agent. He speaks something in her ear.

The woman’s eyes go huge and she steps in front of the car. “Officer Callaghan, we’re going to have to search the camper for drugs! Strictly procedure, don’t worry.”

It’s the most bald faced lie Jules has ever been on the receiving end of. Even Dean gasps, white as a sheet.

_They want to get us out of the car._

It’s the name. They called Jules by her maiden name. Only a federal agency would know that. It’s not anywhere on her current passport. They slipped up and filed her name as Callaghan on the bulletin.

“We’ve been made,” Dean whispers. “CSIS and the FBI are never going to let us through.”

Both the agents’ hands go to their weapons. Agents at the desk inside also stand, guns in hand, talking on radios and holding up printed photos.

Photos of Jules and Sam. Canadian and American agents alike spill out the doors. The woman keeps waving her arm to a parking lot on the side, trying to get Jules out of the vehicle.

_Tough luck, lady. _

Jules places her fingers down on the wheel, one by one. Adrenaline floods her system, heart rate increasing by steady degrees.

“Dean, do you get motion sick?”

Dean closes his eyes for a beat. “Oh please…you’re not actually going to—”

“Dean, I need you to get down on the floor, okay?” Jules unbuckles his seatbelt and presses his head down. “Right now, please.”

Dean complies, but he’s groaning. “When we made this stupid, shoe string plan, I thought this part was made up. Like, a joke.”

His fright still sounds shaky, as if they’re at a particularly good horror movie or he’s in the hospital for a fender bender case of whiplash. Scary, but not nearly at the level of what’s coming.

_He doesn’t know. _

Jules yanks the stick back into drive. “Nope.”

The agent is red faced now, her gun drawn and aimed at the windshield. Aimed at Greg’s _son. _It’s the final straw.

Jules bares her teeth in a feral growl and her foot hits the floor.

The car squeals to life, leaving a rubber fumed cloud. Their border agent leaps to the side, swearing.

_CRACK!_

A bullet hits the passenger’s side mirror, shocking Jules—_they’re firing on us!_ That was never part of the plan, just that they would speed away before anyone could get inside the vehicle or roadblock them. Even if their refusal to cooperate spooked agents enough to try and stop them, these shots aren't at the tires or her grill. These are _head_ _shots_, aimed right at the windshield! She can’t even remotely think of a reason for why they would use lethal force.

Dean _screams_ and that sends something inside Jules into overdrive. They’re threatening her family, one of their _kids_.

_CRACK!_

The next one hits a camper tire. It lists to the left, orange sparks flying into the air. Jules shoves the stick into reverse. She backs up until she sees the Canadian border agent, a huge man, lower his smoking rifle and jump out of the way.

After that, Jules keeps her eyes on the open road. “Hold on!”

Dean’s arms cover his head but he looks up at her and he’s strangely calmer. “Drive! Now, now!”

“As you wish, my good man.” Jules floors it for the second and final time. She’s at a disadvantage with the camper’s added weight but it doesn’t matter. Surprise is on their side. “Just stay down.”

_CRACK!_

Dean’s window explodes in a shower of glass.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The car goes out of control for a split second, one split second of stomachs thrown against abdominal walls to the tune of screaming tires, and Jules marvels that she over compensated, that they’re going to die just because she couldn’t drive under pressure. 
> 
> She can’t believe they made it this far only to crash.

‘Face the firing squad,  
Against all the odds.  
When friends are thin on the ground  
And they try to divide us,  
We must find a way.’

“Dig Down” ~ Muse

Jules feels the heated whistle of a bullet pass by her nose. When she spares a glance, the bullet is lodged in her driver’s side frame.

_CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!_

The border is already half a kilometer behind, speedometer pushing a hundred and twenty, but two black SUVs zoom after them, lights flashing. In the rear view mirror, agents lean out of the passenger side windows with their automatics drawn. There's no bullhorn, no police calls to pull over, just three men with semi-automatics that are _inches_ away from being sniper rifles. The sight chills Jules down to her core, that this is methodical, planned, without purpose other than to neutralize them both. 

Dean peers up at her, blood on the back of his hands. “Are we gonna die?”

Jules wrenches the wheel to the left, using the camper to clip the left SUV's grill. It skids away into the ditch, taking one of the rifles with it. One down, two to go. Dean’s jaw drops, awed.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Jules hollers. “If only Spike was here. He loves a good tactical driving shake down.”

That gets a surprised grin out of Dean. His eyes glimmer. Jules can’t tell if they’re from fear or amazement.

“You have our getaway?” she asks.

Awkward with the cramped position, Dean manages to pull his phone out of his jacket pocket. He scrolls through the special map they photographed at the library archives.

_CRACK! _Jules swerves. _CRACK!_

“Not going to do us much good if we can’t lose the second SUV!” Dean yells, over the rush of air from the busted window and sound of bullets pinging off their car. “But you need to take the next exit and then there’s a hidden road.”

“Hang tight, Dean!”

He stretches one arm out to touch her knee. “Jules, what are you possibly going to do?”

Her nostrils flare. “This!”

Jules pumps the gas with tiered pressure and then takes her foot off. Her right hand yanks on the emergency brake and her left swivels the wheel clockwise.

The car goes out of control for a split second, one split second of stomachs thrown against abdominal walls to the tune of screaming tires, and Jules marvels that she over compensated, that they’re going to die just because she couldn’t drive under pressure. She can’t believe they made it this far only to crash. Dean resumes his screaming.

Then the wheel resists under her hand.

Jules pumps the gas again, their spin sliding into something controlled.

Like a battering ram, the camper gains weight through centrifugal force. They spin once, twice, three times, growing ever closer with each circle.

Jules watches the moment the driver of the SUV realizes what’s about to happen. He takes his hands off the wheel and ducks, arms over his head just like Dean.

_WHAM!_

Their trailer slams into the passenger side of the SUV, sending it flying. The SUV hits the ditch with a spray of sparks and rolls. The impact is so strong that it shudders through Jules' bone marrow, all the way up into her teeth.

Metal litters the road for a quarter mile radius and both passengers of the second SUV have been thrown onto the pavement from the impact. One has a rifle still strapped to his body.

Jules stares at the carnage in her mirrors. _Did I kill them? I didn’t think it would be that violent!_

Trembling, she releases the e-brake with a snap motion of her wrist. The car rights, the camper a moment after. It’s still spitting sparks.

Jules speeds down the highway, passing cars and diving for the exit. Car horns blare but traffic is sparse enough that she can get away with the reckless driving.

“Dean, where’s that old back highway? We need to pull over.”

Dean’s eyes don’t blink, on Jules and the view out the shattered back window.

“Dean?” Anxiety pierces her suddenly. “Are you hit? Did you hurt your head?”

“That…” Dean eases himself out from under the dashboard. He’s flushed now, ruddy cheeked and sweating. “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jules runs a hand through her hair, her laughter tinged with panic. “Yeah. Let’s not tell your father about this one.”

They’re the only car on the road now, further away from the main artery. Trees clump closer on either side of the cracked pavement.

“Up here,” says Dean. “It’s not marked well. See that sign with the carriage on it? Take a right.”

Jules does, slowing down when she sees the camper bouncing along behind them. The curtains still haven’t moved, aside from a rod on the window that’s come off in the chaos.

“I think we should take a break,” says Dean. “I’m worried about him.”

“Me too.” Jules pulls over in an empty meadow. She turns off the car and rests her head on her forearms, on the wheel, for a blissful minute. “You okay, Dean?”

“Yeah.” He sits up properly in his seat. “You?”

Jules doesn’t answer, eyeing the short but jagged, numerous cuts on his skin. “Grab my first aid duffel in the back.”

Dean leans around and retrieves it. “Can we check on him first? There aren’t any seatbelts back there.”

Jules concedes this with a soft curse. Their car is riddled with bullet holes, the stuffing torn out of the backseat by a hollow point round. One of the car tires is completely shredded.

_They weren’t shooting to detain. _Jules is dazed for a whole new reason. _These are kill shots. That was way too close._

Stepping out of the vehicle, two things happen simultaneously:

Dean falls to his knees to throw up, repeatedly. And a hand emerges from the little camper door—just to flip Jules the bird.

She stops dead in her tracks, ears ringing. “Director? Is that you?”

However, the man who comes out first is not Hartford.

“Sam!” Jules flips him the bird too, she’s so outraged. She absently notes that her middle finger is shaking. “What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

Sam’s hand turns into a comforting one, when he stumbles down the steps to gather his wife in for a jell-kneed embrace. “Please don’t ever become a stunt driver.”

Jules slaps him upside the head while kissing his cheek. “I saved our lives, thank you very much.”

They share an exasperated look and then a long, relieved kiss.

Sam pulls away to look over his shoulder with clouded eyes. “Just barely.”

Director Hartford stands at the open door. His lip is split and there’s a spectacular, calico patch of bruises along his forehead but he looks relatively unharmed.

“Mrs. Braddock, my thanks. You kept your word.” He points behind him. “But I think we’re going to need that medical kit.”

Dean wipes his mouth. His eyes nearly bug out of his head. “_Dad_?!”

He makes it to his feet with Hartford’s help and dashes inside. Jules follows after, supporting Sam who still looks like he’s gotten off a roller coaster after riding it ten times. She’s rarely seen him so green.

There’s only one place to sit in the tiny camper. A U-shape of padded booths around a small table and Greg perches on the edge of it, clutching his bad leg. His cane is by the window, nearly five feet away.

He glances up at their entry, veins in his forehead ropey. Eyes bloodshot with distress. He doesn’t speak—something Jules has only ever seen maybe two times he’s been in extreme pain—and the room goes cold.

“Boss!” Jules is aghast, and at the sight of him her eyes immediately fill with tears. “I’m so sorry! Had I known you were in here I never would have used you guys as a ram!”

Sam stares at her with the ghost of a puzzled smile. “You hid the Director in here.”

“Yes,” says Hartford, “but I knew what was coming and squeezed myself between the cupboard and a wall. I discovered you stowaways under the table just before the action started.”

Dean’s hands hover over his father, afraid to touch. “What can I do?”

“He hit the bullet scar on a door handle,” says Sam.

Everyone winces.

Sam takes the duffel from Dean’s hand. “We’ve got some morphine in here for emergencies.”

Greg has enough energy to lift both brows, forehead furrowing.

Sam winks. “It’s not your average Canadian Tire medical kit. Steve helped us with some of the rarer supplies. Here, just a few ccs.”

He swabs Greg’s elbow and depresses the needle while the other three wait, barely daring to breathe, for it to take effect. Jules spies a bloody patch along Greg’s jaw that matches the one on the sink.

_I did this._

She has to sit down, across from him.

Sam frowns. “Are you going to faint?”

“I wish,” she snaps. Ire brushes at her in broiling waves. “How could you? Both of you! Director Hartford’s request made sense, because the US government needs to think he’s on vacation in Toronto while he investigates a possible corruption here. Dean got to come along because he’s a dual citizen and it looked more legit, an easier story to sell, with him present.”

Sam and Greg have a silent conversation with their eyes.

“But you!” Jules flails a hand at them. “You could have _died_! What were you thinking?”

Greg rubs at his temple, then swallows a few times. His voice is velvet soft. “This whole plan was not only illegal but far fetched. Way outside our comfort zone. You were willing to risk your life, your career.”

Sam nods. “How could we not do the same?”

Dean massages at his father’s shoulder and Greg reaches up to clasp the hand. Young against old, their fingers tangle together.

Hartford, wonder of all wonders, wears a narrow-eyed, smiling expression that is approaching fond. “We’re probably all going to lose our jobs over this. I’ve never even met your comrades, but may I just say that even I think they are worth it.”

Jules finds Greg’s eye. She sniffs.

“They sure are,” says Greg. “Every time.”

“We’re their only hope.” Dean shakes his head. “We might be Spike and Ed’s only chance at getting out of this alive.”

"We might be _our_ only hope," Jules counters. She throws a weighted look at Greg. "Those were kill shots, boss, not detaining maneouvers. Why would border patrol be sent a bulletin on us that mandates that kind of force?"

Greg doesn't have any more of an answer than her, and as one they all look to Hartford. He shakes his head. "I don't know, Mrs. Braddock, and I'm not sure I want to find out. My government locked me out but before that they weren't even taking the disappearances of your teammates seriously. I have no idea why they'd stonewall you and then try to stop you in such a harsh way. Perhaps CSIS...?"

It's Greg turn to frown. "No, that doesn't make sense. Damien Cho was assigned the case long, long after you were, and he cared about it more to save face in front of the FBI, I think. He's young, probably wants a career buffer. And what better way to gain that than by finding the culprits of an abduction ring that even the US federal government can't solve?"

His voice is bitter by the end, expressing all their feelings on the subject, on the very skin crawling idea that someone might see the kidnapping details of Spike and Ed and get greedy over it, not caring about their safety or condition one way or the other. 

"Now that you mention it..." Hartford blinks fast. "Evidence kept getting 'lost' at the Bureau on these disappearing agents, and people were often asked to set the case aside for far more trivial ones."

Sam's brows shoot up. "Really? Your superiors want to table a missing persons case that directly harms their own agents?"

"It sounds galling, I agree," says Hartford, "And now I'm beginning to wonder if there's something to that. We may not be safe even through the proper channels."

The four Canadians are silent, pressing closer to each other without even noticing.

“Well.” Hartford brushes off his suit jacket. “Either way, my cover is certainly blown now, with that little episode, and we have no usable car. We're back to square one should both of our governments come looking for us.”

As if summoned, a helicopter whines to life in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't recommend this as a way to cross the border lol! But I have a weird fondness for writing car stunts so this was a ton of fun. I also got to learn a bit about how to actually drift a car in real life from a friend!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike nods and takes a steadying breath.
> 
> Or tries to.
> 
> The man’s eyes go wider, if possible. His chest moves but no sound comes out.

‘I’m blinded by the silence,  
No horizon that I see.  
Feel the cold, the friend drops,  
Salted by my tears.’

“We Are” ~ Haevn, from _Symphonic Tales_

For being so tired, sleep is elusive. It doesn’t come in the first hour, not the second. Now that the world is still, a windless day with the sun cresting high over a bank of autumn clouds, thoughts are free to accumulate.

Sorrow too, most of all.

Ed lays there and listens to Spike’s troubled breathing. Even in sleep it’s wet and thick, rasping.

Ed kept talking for a while, just to see—but the younger man is well and truly out. His eyes rove underneath his lids and Ed would pay big money to know what he’s dreaming about.

A tear rolls off the end of Ed’s nose.

He closes his eyes in Spike’s messy, cold hair and grieves. More drops collect on the shoulder of the boy’s jacket, a soggy patch. He held them in until Spike fell asleep.

There were so many chances to say it, to air out the truth that he suspects Spike already knows.

Ed has done the math a dozen different ways in his mind, an insane loop of dread and fear. The sum total always comes out the same way:

Spike is dying.

Poisoning, if it's the right kind and even a small dose, tends to cause permanant or fatal damage within the first seventy-two hours. Though he has no idea how long they’ve been snatched from their team, even if it’s only one day, they don’t have much time.

_Spike _doesn’t have much time. His body is losing the battle.

“I’m sorry,” Ed whispers against Spike’s shoulder. “You deserve better. And I need…”

Ed has to stop, his throat thick.

He takes a few breaths that could almost be called sobs. “I need you to know that I’m proud of you. That you kept me at this job so many times I wanted to quit. _So _many times…”

Ed’s trembling lips lift and he strokes Spike’s forehead, shiny with diaphoretic sweat. “I was going to retire after Greg’s injury. Did I ever tell you that? Probably not, because I made sure nobody knew.”

A muscle cramps in Spike’s arm, though he doesn’t wake. Ed thumbs it a few times. “But then you looked at me with those big eyes, that day in the locker room after the bombs, and asked me, ‘the city needs us now more than ever. We’re going to give them hope, right?’ And I couldn’t leave you.”

Ed’s heavy eyes rival his heart but he refuses to sleep, to abandon Spike even in that small way. He knows he’ll have to, eventually. He’s a liability, being so exhausted.

But Ed doesn’t want to wake up to a dead body. To this boy, this precious kid so full of life and curiosity, with eyes that will never open again.

This time is invaluable, just to feel the warm weight of Spike against him. Ed stills his own breathing so he can savour every single laboured push of Spike’s bony spine. Each time it presses into Ed’s diaphragm, he counts the seconds until it starts up again.

He refuses to let it stop.

The head wound is worse than he’s told Spike, far worse. Ed loses time. He closes his eyes one minute and then, hallucinating his mother’s singing with an old piano or playing basketball with kids down the block, opens them to a different time of day. The jump-skip happens several times.

It scares Ed more than he expects. Sometimes he doesn't even have to close his eyes for the hallucinations, as evidenced by the neon pink, technicolour fox that scampered past a few hours ago, probably his mind's answer to an innocuous rustle in the bushes around them. 

Ed is just beginning to pray when the sound of an engine roars suddenly up the road. Very close. There are two male voices too, arguing, familiar voices. Ed prays harder.

Spike hears the voices too.

He twitches in his sleep, on pure instinct. His stirring turns defensive and balking, taught in Ed’s arms. Ed hardly dares to move, but he rocks them a fraction, hoping it will calm the nightmare. They cannot be discovered now, not after making it so far.

Two consecutive spasms ripple through Spike’s leg and he hisses through his teeth. A trail of blood leaks out the corner of his nose.

Ed flat out cannot clamp a hand over Spike’s mouth to keep him quiet. He doesn’t possess the will power or the ability to harden himself that much, nor does he ever want to break his promise. Spike feels unsafe enough as it is.

He settles for rubbing another circle on Spike’s chest.

Spike comes awake instantly at the touch. He goes sheet white, eyes popping open, with a weak flail to fling the grip off.

“Easy, bud.” Ed breathes it next to Spike’s ear. He grabs hold of Spike’s hands easily, crossing them into an ‘x’ over Spike’s chest. “Just me, hey. Spike, it’s just me.”

Spike goes limp. “E-Ed?”

“There we go. You’re alright. Huh? We’re alright.” Ed keeps up the comforting chatter until the last of Spike’s tension ebbs away. “You remember where we are?”

Spike pauses, his breathing reedy and nails on a chalkboard thin. Then he nods.

“Good man,” Ed whispers. “Sorry for scaring you. We need to keep silent.”

Spike blinks up at sun filtering through the leaves overhead. Not much light, shaded in this little soup bowl crevasse.

He looks worse than he did before, a grey pallor to his skin. He’s losing blood inside himself somewhere, of this Ed is totally positive, especially with the hardening of Spike’s abdomen under Ed’s hands during the last few hours. It feels like putty that's been left out in the snow, too stiff and caving.

The van actually parks this time. Ed watches the tachycardia at an artery in Spike’s neck and feels the same amped up anxiety.

_Keep on driving. Don’t stop._

Boots crunch along the dirt.

Spike stops breathing altogether and Ed clenches the hand still in his. Spike doesn’t squeeze back, his eyes closed.

Ed is alarmed for a whole new reason. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t give in to the instinct to yell Spike’s name. He watches that artery until his eyes sting. It doesn’t stop.

Spike suddenly takes another breath, still fighting and alive.

“Nothing here, Saul!” comes the blond man’s voice. “We need to try farther up the road or we’re dead!”

Mercifully, the two men take up that suggestion. The van engine putters away.

Ed is just about to relax when they hear another strange sound—horse hooves. Clopping along a few minutes behind the van at a good clip, with squeaky wheels splashing through dewy puddles. A man is singing an old Appalachian folk song that Ed remembers from his summer camp days.

After a few minutes, it too trails away.

While he doesn’t dare crawl out of their hidey hole to look, he knows what he heard. He wants to flag the man down for help, but the van is too close. It might see them on such a straight stretch of road. Too risky.

Spike’s eyes dart from side to side. His whisper shakes. “Ed…”

“Just take it easy, okay? We don’t know—”

“That was a buggy, Ed.”

“…Yes, it was.”

Spike’s pupils are huge, dilated with infection and shock. “I know where we are.”

Ed sighs. “So do I.”

“We can’t _be _here! We might as well be stuck on the moon!” Spike’s agitation grows, and Ed senses that whatever he was dreaming about doesn’t help any. “The team probably thinks we’re still in Canada!”

“Spike—”

“We’re dead in the water, Ed. Even if we do find civilization, it’s not somewhere with phones.” Spike’s chest is moving so erratically that it dislodges the leaves. “And there’s only one road in or out. We’re not just far from home, we’re _hundreds_ _of miles_ from our own country!”

“Spike, you need to calm down.”

“Maybe I can find a…a-a tower.”

Ed's heart skips a beat when he recognizes Spike's ‘brain speeding around for a solution’ tone, a perfect match for the day Lew died. Frantic, fraying at the edges. 

Spike coughs up red into his palm. “Hook up some…w-wire and do Morse Code or some…something. Or a flare. Yeah! We could create a chemical reaction that—”

“Hey. _Hey_!” Ed cinches his arms. Clamped tight, Spike’s movements still. Ed feels a brief moment of guilt for frightening him into it before he softens his voice. “We’ll figure it out. Okay?”

Spike nods and takes a steadying breath.

Or tries to.

The man’s eyes go wider, if possible. His chest moves but no sound comes out.

Ed scrambles into action, leaning forward so Spike is even more upright and he can spit out all the blood and gunk.

This mucus isn’t your typical bronchitis green or yellow. Aside from the blood, there’s a cloudy pewter tinge all throughout Spike’s saliva.

Ed’s heart drops into his boots. It’s his first taste of genuine devastation since this drama began.

_Oh, God, please— _

Spike’s eyes scream with panic, his hands digging into the soil beside his knees, face at last turning red.

_He’s suffocating._ It all hits at once, the reality of the situation and the warning symptoms that he didn't notice at first. _Spike can't breathe...he's asphyxiating._

Ed does something completely unwise and completely from memory, from that time his father had to take care of him during a bout of croup, when his mother was away at a conference. He remembers being just a kid, barely six years old, and his airway completely closing over after a nasty coughing fit. He'd glanced up at his father, shocked at the blatant panic eclipsing his face. It was the first time Ed had ever truly seen his father terrified, with a look Ed imagines in his own eyes right now. And his father had reached out his hand, lightning fast, in a move of sheer desperation—

With a flat palm, Ed whacks Spike right between the shoulder blades.

Spike winces but his ricocheted gasp of air is worth it. It’s beautiful, stunning. Ed literally almost passes out at the sound, dizzy. Spike heaves up more bile and blood.

With one hand braced on the ground, Ed pulls Spike close with the other. He thinks maybe he’s keening with relief. The sound gets lost under Spike's desperate breathing.

Spike collapses against his chest, coughing, hacking, _wheezing._

Ed opens his mouth to apologize for the firm hit—it’s not even the recommended course of action, medically—when Spike looks up at him with overwhelmed eyes that take Ed’s breath away, panting wildly out of control. His gaze is so sharp Ed feels it burrow under his skin immediately, brown eyes dilated to such a point that they're almost black. 

“Th…thank you.” Spike pushes his forehead into Ed’s sternum, and that’s how Ed knows he’s well and truly at the end of his tether. “_Thank you_.”

“Spike.” Ed runs his hand through the shaggy locks, repeating the name like a prayer. Over and over again.

Spike’s breathing is still too fast, too tight. His psychological unease fuels the physical reaction in a vicious cycle, one that Spike, for all his training, can't seem to slow down. 

_He needs to return to a resting heart rate._

Helpless, weeping, head in so much pain it’s causing black spots in his vision, Ed does the only thing he can think of.

His right hand eclipses Spike’s ear, cupped over the icy skin of its shell. This trick always worked for Clark as a younger boy, when he couldn’t get to sleep or when he woke up from a nightmare.

With a gentle push, Ed presses further, until Spike can’t hear the outside world, just Ed’s heartbeat wailing away. He feels his own pulse through the sweater, against Spike’s left ear where they’re melded together.

Spike’s shifting quiets, as does his chest. Ed’s other arm is wrapped around Spike’s torso, and he feels the exact moment Spike calms, ribcage slowing down.

“That’s it.” Ed doesn’t care anymore if Spike sees him crying. “I’m here, Spike. I can’t say we’re going to be okay, but I’m here.”

Spike’s eyes slide shut. Ed knows the tech probably can’t hear individual words he’s saying, but just the buzz of Ed’s chest against his face and the sound of his heartbeat seem to work wonders. The lattice work of blood across Spike's skin shoots a chill down Ed's spine, the delicate lace patterns a testament to his steady decline. How much worse can he get before they reach the point of no return? Before he his condition becomes something untreatable? Neither one can move or stand anymore.

Short of being rescued, they have zero options. 

They sit that way for a long time, Ed rocking and Spike just breathing, a full time job for him at the moment. Ed gazes up at a bubbling blue sky overhead, sun at the very top of its zenith. Noon, then.

Part of Ed hopes no one ever finds him, because he, viscerally, cannot face Greg and the team with the news that their boy died in his arms.

“I’m with you.” His lips drop into Spike’s hair. “Until the end.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re going to get caught,” Hartford insists.
> 
> Greg finally tapes off the gauze. “That’s the plan, Director. We just have to play our cards right for _when_ we get caught.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never was there a tale of more research than that of Orion and Amish country, Pennsylvania. Not to mention the Hershey family and how aristocracy hated them for making chocolate affordable to the masses. 
> 
> All that to say, I'm sure I inevitably got something wrong. My humblest apologies to anyone who lives there and knows the back roads better than my Google Maps/historical archives sources! I did my best.

‘Out there’s a land that time don’t command,  
Wanna be the first to arrive.  
No time for ponderin’ why I’m a-wanderin’,  
Not while we’re both still alive.’

“Ends of the Earth” ~ Lord Huron

“I can’t believe that farmer sold this to us for only six hundred bucks.” Sam pats the dashboard.

“Oh really?” Jules gestures like Vanna White to the broken radio and clock, cigarette butts still caked to the lighter and cup holder. “Really, sweetie?”

It’s a blue, wood panelled van old enough to be considered vintage in Jules’ high school days. It stinks to high heaven.

Dean has already _named_ it.

Right on cue, his head appears between the front seats. “Geraldine is a beauty, Jules. Don’t insult her.”

“Yeah,” says Sam. He’s been egging the boy on all afternoon, probably with the intent to cheer him up. “She helped us lose the helicopter _and _the roadblocks! We’re just a normal family going on a road trip now. Show Geraldine a little respect.” 

Greg, sandwiched between Dean and Hartford in the back, grins. He’s still busy bandaging Dean’s hands, the cuts of which are deeper than they expected and worryingly refuse to clot. “The van’s got a full tank of gas and four-by-four tires. It’s a win in my book.”

Jules looks away from the road to meet Hartford’s eye in the rear view. “Thanks for helping us out, Director. What other tricks have you got up your sleeve?”

“A cheque book is hardly a trick.” Hartford is busy doing something complicated with Dean’s map and a compass. “And I can’t believe you’re leaving your cellphones on.”

Jules and Greg share an indulgent grin. It's familiar, an expression often shared when out on a call. 

“We’re going to get caught,” Hartford insists.

Greg finally tapes off the gauze. “That’s the plan, Director. We just have to play our cards right for _when _we get caught.”

“Are all Canadians this gutsy?”

“Nah.” Dean rests his head on his father’s shoulder. He's tired and mentally drained, though trying to hide it. “These guys are just nuts.”

“Nuts, huh?” Greg musses Dean’s hair. “You’re following in my footsteps, then.”

The others have a laugh about that and Jules can pretend, just for a bit, that this isn’t a life or death race to find her mentor and little brother before they’re flown out of the country. It almost feels like the old days, all of them working a case together as Team One. 

They go through a few toll stations, and Jules watches her Canadian quarters pass the test. The caribou heads roll away, along with the miles.

After a few strategic, hidden turns, thanks to Dean’s stellar navigation skills and Hartford’s knowledge of backroad pathways, they follow the hundred-and-fifty-year-old map from New York into Pennsylvania.

The landscape changes from highway and gas stations to farm fields and forests. She drives for over two hours, off the main artery roads, until the old highway turns to dirt. The road gets narrower, _narrower_.

And suddenly the power lines stop.

Jules knows, looking at how poorly marked this section of backwoods Pennsylvania is—as in, not marked at all—that they’re in the right place. That even with law enforcement probably out raking the east coast for them, they’re hidden for the foreseeable future. Even the chopper, the scant few times they've spotted it looking for them, would be hard pressed to spot them through all this foliage.

She can see it in her mind’s eye, how easy it would be for the paint van to find a secret way through the Niagara Falls border, to creep through the forgotten roads still lying in these dense woods.

The one they’re currently in is actually part of a national park. Two ruts lay concealed in the bushes, a forgotten trail for when vehicles were horse driven.

Here, they still are.

Passing along the park’s edge, they finally come across exactly what they’re looking for:

A young man in suspenders and a straw hat.

He tips it to them when they pull over next to his wheat field. A chestnut draft horse is stopped for a break from scything, with the work day almost over, munching on oats and a bucket of water. One back hoof is cocked in preparation for a nap.

Jules puts the van in park and turns the engine off. “I’ll take this one. You guys look suspicious with all the bruises, no offence.”

“Will he talk to a woman who’s not his wife?” Sam asks. 

Dean snorts. “It’s Amish country, not the dark ages. Get with the times, Sam.”

Jules smiles at their antics. She’s immediately glad she’s not wearing her police uniform, but rather the less intimidating ensemble of a purple button up blouse and jeans. She does up the button over her sternum and rolls the sleeves down to her wrists.

“Stay sharp,” she says, squeezing Sam’s hand before hopping out.

Even the air smells clearer here, much better than smoggy, downtown Toronto.

“Can I help you, miss?” the farmer asks.

“Yes, thank you.” She smiles. “I’m Jules.”

He shakes her offered hand without a moment’s hesitation. “Thomas. Not many tourists pass through this part of our village, especially with the frost coming.”

“No…and that’s actually what I want to ask you about.” Jules removes a crinkled photo of the paint van from her pocket. “Have you seen any other vehicles passing through here, like this one?”

Thomas takes the photo and squints at it. Then he removes a pair of wire frame glasses from his breast pocket, glued and repaired many times.

“Ah,” he says, when he can see the picture properly. “Yes, I have. I remember it because we haven’t seen automobiles in my part of town for almost a year and this one was going too fast, at night no less. Dangerous, if you ask me.”

Jules nods, tone wry. “I agree. And there may have been a reason for that. Do you know where they went?”

A regretful grimace on his face, Thomas shakes his head. Jules sighs.

On the Prairies, quiet is a part of life. Lack of cars, rarely any airplanes. The assurance that if someone were to sneak onto your property, you’d see them coming from half a kilometer away.

But _this_. It takes that to a whole new level.

No engine noise. No rumble in the earth, under one’s feet, of far away traffic. There’s no humming from streetlamps or the static zing of someone’s old rabbit eared TV playing.

Jules has never known this kind of stillness.

The loudest sound is the car popping and the horse, his giant teeth crunching away on a carrot. A fat carrot.

Though Jules grew up in farm country, it was never hushed enough to hear wind through the wheat stalks, like it is now. The sound of a million snakes all hissing at once, or like the wheat is whispering secrets.

“Would you like to come into town?” Thomas asks. “We have food and someone can direct you back to the interstate.”

“No, that’s fine, thank you.” Jules wrings her hands, feeling her professional persona melt away in painful droplets. “That van, see…someone I love was in there.”

Thomas’s brow knits. He puts it together in a blink. “They took them by force.”

“My little brother,” says Jules. “They abducted him and my friend. So please, if you can think of anywhere the men might hide in these woods, it would be a huge help.”

“I know not.” Thomas looks disturbed having to say it, his mouth in a crooked, pensive line. “Our township has no hiding places of that sort, especially to hide a vehicle. Granted, this is the very outskirts. Most of our people have moved closer to town but I wanted to stay in the old farmstead.”

He points up the road, to the tippy top of attic eaves that Jules can just see if she squints.

Another sound grows louder, the jingle of a harness. An older man driving a buggy, more white in his beard than blonde, rolls up to Thomas and calls “whoooaa!” to his pony.

After climbing down, he leads his horse over to share the water. “Thomas, here’s that hand lathe you asked for.”

“Ah! You finally remembered.” Thomas smiles, teasing, at his friend. He takes the tool with a wink.

“Upstart youth.” But the old man’s eyes are grinning too. He spots Jules and tips his hat. “Good afternoon to you.”

“They’re asking about the van, Ben,” Thomas explains. “The one with the paint brush on it.”

Jules feels their chances dwindling away. Short of knocking on every door in this village, she’ll never find Spike and Ed before they’re an ocean away.

“There’s got to be a hideout around here.” Jules scratches her nails through her hair. She’s overheated, and she knows it’s from adrenaline. “We can’t just…just go _home_.”

“A hideout?” Ben asks. “Like a secluded property?”

Jules’ eyes snap to him. “Yes. Somewhere they might hide something illegal. Or someone.”

Ben loses his humour at once. He scowls. “I told Jonah—our town elder—he should tear that factory down but he refused. Now look at what’s happened.”

Jules lurches forward, drunk on a thimble’s worth of hope. She looks him dead in the eye, not blinking. “Please. _Please _tell me.”

“We’re near Hershey, you understand?”

Jules doesn’t but she nods at Ben.

Ben looks uncomfortable and his eyes darken. “Back when the Hershey family’s business took off, chocolate was all the rage. Many would have liked to see his company taken down, especially upper classmen who could afford to have it shipped from overseas.”

“Okay…” Jules frowns. “What does chocolate have to do with a secret property?”

“Rival companies couldn’t figure out his recipe.” Ben shifts and Thomas nods at him to continue. “So they took to bribing factory workers there and attempting to recreate the process. Built a secret facility just west of here, with the hopes of opening up a shop, about fifteen miles. Nobody uses the old service road anymore due to coyotes in the area. It’s overgrown too much anyway.”

“Where?” Jules waves behind her and Sam starts the van. “Tell me where.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas asks. “Nobody’s been there in almost a century. It’s rat infested and a dangerous part of the forest.”

Jules presses her palms together so they’re steepled. She fights to keep her tone level, calm. “This might be my only chance to save two honourable men before they die. Before an evil can’t be stopped.”

Thomas looks at Ben, and the older man takes off his hat.

“Are your tires thick?” Ben asks.

“What?” Jules blinks. “Why?”

“You’ll have to go through a dense bank of trees where there is no road to, well…” Ben circles a hand in a distinctly Greg Parker gesture. “_Get _to the service road.”

“I think we’re good,” says Jules. “I’ll march there in my bare feet if I have to.”

This seems to be what Ben needs to hear. He begins a rambling explanation. Jules pulls out her notepad and scribbles furious directions, though they’re landmark driven by things like ‘gnarled oak’ and ‘broken flag pole.’

She looks up when she feels the heavy weight of Ben’s hand on her shoulder. He peers intently into her face. “You have a fighter’s heart. A hard thing to find.”

“Lots of people are ready for violence,” she counters, riled that she hasn’t found her family yet, the perpetual clock ticking onwards to greater shame if she can’t save them. What good is she if she can't get the job done when it counts?

“True.” Ben smiles. “Yours, however, is powered by the need for justice, just like Thomas’ is powered by the need to see things grow or mine is powered by turning trees into beautiful things. But yours, yearning for what’s right? That’s a rare gem, ma’am.”

Jules stares at him a moment. She comes from a culture that doesn’t speak such earnest things without some caution and reserve. There’s something guileless in Ben’s tone, a child’s freedom paired with a mature outlook.

“Thank you.” She shakes their hands again. “You have no idea how much this means to us.”

Thomas waves when she walks away. “I hope you find your family, and let us know if you run into any trouble. Godspeed!”

Jules leaves feeling lighter and more wound up all at the same time.

When she hops back in the van, the passenger’s side this time, Sam just looks at her.

“I’m alright.” She answers the unspoken question in Sam’s eyes without letting him see hers. Sam cranks the van into reverse so they can get back to the 'road.' Greg leans forward to squeeze her shoulder. “We have a location. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Dean asks.

Jules buckles up and pokes at Sam until he does the same. She squares her shoulders. “You may want to say goodbye to Geraldine.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cho's voice lowers. “Someone put out a kill-on-sight order against both Braddocks.”
> 
> Warmth sucks from the room.
> 
> Shaking, Wordy has to sit down again.

‘The harmonies grew strong  
When the children came along,  
And somehow, in a song,  
A family survived.’

“Somewhere in a Song” ~ Alan Doyle

Police officers never get paid what they should, what they deserve for all the trauma and injuries that come with this profession.

One thing Wordy will admit, though—the SRU doesn’t skimp on coffee.

It’s an expensive Italian dark roast, courtesy of Spike’s complaints way back in his rookie days over terrible store bought coffee. The new stock was Spike’s first Christmas gift at the SRU, to them all really, from Holleran.

Ever since then, that’s all they order.

Now, they’re spoiled. Anything less than imported coffee just doesn’t cut it.

Wordy carries only one mug of it, mainly because he only ever has one hand to spare these days, the other on his cane.

The lobby is quiet for once. Nearly silent. Peter is on dispatch this time, Winnie having been convinced to go home and rest.

Wordy softens at the sight of his wife, Shelley on the floor with Izzy playing some kind of guessing game. The toddler giggles while pointing to one of three plastic cups.

Shelley gasps in an over the top sound, and lifts the cup. It reveals a bouncy ball underneath. “You found it!”

“Foun’ it!” Izzy echoes. She snatches up the ball.

“Toss it here!” says Shelley, and the little girl does. “Good job, Izzy.”

Wordy’s eyes wander for his own child, only to find her fast asleep—on Sophie’s lap. It’s endearing, to see the two women watching over each other’s daughters. A wise switch.

Sophie looks tired, like Lilly on her chest, the antithesis of Izzy with her Ed Lane bouts of energy.

Clark is dead to the world in the briefing room, asleep with his head on his arms. Dried tear tracks mar his cheeks.

Sophie has her elbow propped on the edge of the dispatch desk in one of the rolling chairs. One hand holds Lilly steady, the other on her cheek. Wordy’s other two children are off at Shelley’s sister’s house.

Sadie Braddock is asleep in her carrier, and Sophie rocks it with her foot.

Unlike most wives, or even her son, Sophie didn’t receive the news of her husband’s abduction with weeping or fury or any kind of hysteria.

She’s shed a few tears, sure. Had to explain in halting tones to her almost-three year old child that Papa was away on business and had gotten ‘lost.’ She hasn’t eaten much, which is par for the course.

No, mostly Sophie Lane just looks _weary_. Heart sick. Weary of grief and knowing all along that this would probably happen someday.

Wordy indulges in a few more seconds of watching the scene, a mental snapshot. Then he shakes himself and ducks to catch Sophie’s far away gaze.

“Coffee?”

Sophie straightens, relief in her eyes. She matches the quiet tone. “You’re a saint, Wordy.”

“You can thank Spike, actually. If this was standard issue coffee, we’d all be dead on our feet.”

Sophie’s face falls. “Still no ransom demand?”

Wordy glances at Peter. The young man shakes his head, brow stormy. His eyes drift to Wordy’s cane and then he pushes the spare chair closer.

“Thanks, Peter.” Wordy rolls it up next to Sophie and eases down. “And thank you, for letting Lilly sleep. She hasn’t needed a nap in ages.”

Sophie smiles at the sleeping girl in her arms. “Too much excitement around here. I could use a nap myself and it’s not even lunch time.”

“There’s a few spare cots, if you want,” Wordy immediately offers. “I’ll take Lilly and Sadie off your hands so you can go lay down.”

Sophie touches Wordy’s forearm, a warm stroke. Her smiles turns forced when Izzy runs past them, after the rascally bouncing ball.

“I need to be a part of what’s happening,” Sophie whispers. “Even if it’s just to help the kids feel safe, closer together.”

Wordy respects that. If being a police officer is hard, being a police officer’s spouse is unbearable sometimes. He saw the lightheaded relief on Shelley’s face, the day he announced he was done with the SRU, resigning from bullets and flashbangs and car chases.

Sophie chugs the coffee while Shelley checks emails on her phone. Sadie snuffles in her sleep, three fingers in her mouth. Peter’s murmuring to Team Five out on patrol provides a comforting background noise.

Izzy chooses this moment to waddle over and hand her beloved stuffed giraffe to Wordy.

“Here, Unca Wordy!”

Wordy leans down to tweak Izzy’s pigtail. “Thanks, poppet. You want me to keep him while you go play?”

Izzy balances herself with a hand on Wordy’s knee to point at one of the giraffe’s front hooves. “He got a’ owwie.”

It’s no secret that Izzy has trouble talking for her age, whip smart but her mouth struggling to make certain consonant sounds.

Turning the stuffie around in his hands, Wordy spots the tear. The stitching has loosened in a one inch section around the hoof. Cotton stuffing pokes out the hole. “Looks like he needs some help, huh?”

Izzy nods, delighted with Wordy’s answer. “Fiss-It! Need Fiss-It!”

Wordy’s grin slides clear off his face and he runs a hand down his eyes.

Sophie’s eyes swim with held back tears. She puts on a lighthearted tone for her daughter. “He’s lost too, okay? Uncle Greg and the others will find him.”

Izzy’s eye contact is split between the two adults. Her tiny fingernails catch on Wordy’s jeans, clenching in an unconscious motion. She has that thinking face, strategizing what to do next, a miniature version of Ed’s.

Caressing the giraffe’s mane, Izzy opens her mouth—“‘Pike!”

Shelley’s head whips up from her phone and Sophie’s coffee sloshes down her hand. She quickly sets it down and wipes off her fingers before it can drip onto Lilly. Even Peter’s eyes are wide.

There’s an ominous hitch to Izzy’s chest. “Need ‘Pike!”

Seeing the emotion on Sophie’s face, Wordy intercepts, hefting his daughter onto his own lap. She mumbles but doesn’t wake.

Thus freed, Sophie bends to cup her child’s cheeks in both hands. She looks at Wordy. “That’s the first time she’s ever said his name.”

Tears run down Izzy’s face. “Where’s ‘Pike?”

Izzy might still be a toddler, a verbally delayed one at that, but children always know what’s up. Wordy realizes all the kids are suffering the emotions of this absence. They know the team isn’t there, goofing off and smiling, where they’re supposed to be.

Sophie thumbs away the tears. “Oh, baby—”

“Fiss-It!” Izzy points to her giraffe. “H-he c’n fiss it!”

“Yes he can,” says Wordy, slow enough to grab Izzy’s attention and keep it. “And he will, the second he gets back. He’ll get his tool kit and stitch our giraffe friend right up. Probably with some nerdy explanation on the history of stuffed animals. How does that sound?”

Izzy hiccups. “He gone?”

“He’ll come back soon.” Sophie tugs the girl up into her arms and rocks them. “Papa will make sure of it.”

Wordy glances sharply at her. He’s not sure they should be making such promises, though he has all the hope in the world of them being true.

Izzy sobs into her mother’s chest.

In that immortal chain reaction of young children everywhere, Sadie starts to fuss too. Her hands flail, toothless mouth opening in stuttered cries. Clark jolts awake. 

Shelley pushes to her feet. “Uh oh.”

Soon they’re all holding wailing babies, exhausted and sad of all the adults being sad. Shelley bounces Sadie while walking to the weights room and back. Considering both of Sadie’s parents aren’t even in the country, she’s doing better than Wordy expected.

Murphy’s Law doesn’t exactly extend to police work, but it does to bad timing. Peter swears, loudly, when the main doors fly open.

Holleran bursts through, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sandals fresh off the plane. He’s panting.

Agent Damien Cho follows hot on his heels, so red faced Wordy wonders if he’s about to pop. 

Holleran completely overlooks him. Though his mouth opens for a flustered shout, he flounders to a halt.

He blinks a few times at all the crying and chaos. “Not having a great day, I see. I flew back as soon as I could.”

Wordy juggles Lilly, slowly blinking awake, to shake Holleran’s hand. “Commander, you didn’t have to cut your vacation short.”

“Don’t be absurd, Wordsworth.” Holleran cranes over to peer at the giraffe. “I can fix that, if it would help.”

Izzy sobs brokenly, startling Holleran.

“Never mind,” he says. “Any word on this absolutely harebrained scheme to cross the border? I heard Sam and Greg snuck along for the ride.”

Cho’s hands fly, and it’s somewhat vindicating to see him so unkempt. They all turn to him. “You knew about this?!”

“Of course.” Holleran puffs up to his full height. “And if there are any charges to be laid—I forced them to do it. They were following my orders.”

Wordy snorts. This plan was all Jules, with a bit of Greg’s desperation thrown in.

“They nearly died!” Cho, for the first time, looks stricken. Wordy wants to feel triumphant that he finally cares but the panicked expression makes his stomach clench. “Border Patrol took over fifteen shots at them, including Dean Parker—he’s technically a civilian! They were lucky to drive out alive!”

Every adult in the room makes a choked sound. Peter has his hand on his headset receiver, fingers frozen over the keyboard. Clark’s face is pallid, with a fresh bout of tears and horror in his eyes at hearing what his friend went through.

Wordy sets Lilly on her feet and stands. “Agent Cho—”

“No.” Cho’s chest heaves. “I’ll see that they are not only fired for this but prosecuted to the fullest extent I can manage.”

Sophie hides her eyes in her hand. Shelley stops pacing.

But Holleran must see something in Cho’s face that they don’t. He lights up in an arrogant, devilish smirk. “No, you won’t. What did they find?”

Cho deflates a little. His volume dials down to something on their level, sounding human. “It’s what we didn’t. No paper trail for the bulletin the FBI put out on Jules Braddock. I had her flagged in case she crossed the border, but that was just for detaining and questioning only.”

Cho pauses. He seems to notice the children present as if for the first time.

His voice lowers. “Someone put out a kill-on-sight order against both Braddocks, Commander.”

Warmth sucks from the room.

Shaking, Wordy has to sit down again.

“It didn’t come from us,” Cho defends. He sounds distressed, a small consolation. “I don’t know what’s going on, or why anyone would issue the need for lethal action against two SWAT officers with a personal stake in the case. Whatever this is, it came from the United States end of our investigation.”

“It really is a cover up.” Clark’s voice bears the musical quality of someone in shock. “That’s what Hartford and Greg thought, that maybe someone in the US government was cooking the evidence.”

Cho nods. “This certainly incriminates someone, whoever ordered the hit. We've put an immediate halt on the order, so they're in no danger now, but there's a money trail coming from an offshore account into the FBI's accounts that raised a red flag. That's probably the source.”

They’re all buzzing with questions and confusion and maybe a hint of mania, but no one says a word.

Lilly shuffles over to Shelley. “Can I hold her, Mom?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” says Shelley, all in a rush like she’s not really hearing it. “Make sure to hold her head.”

Sadie is just pushing one year old but she’s small, with Jules’ petite frame. She doesn’t look much over eight months, all podgy fingers and sparse hair that can’t decide what colour it wants to be.

Sam and Jules have a debate going over whether she’ll get auburn or Sam’s twenty four karat hair. Spike claims he already knows, based on the science of genetics, but no one can get a peep out of him one way or the other.

Wordy feels a hot flash of pride, the way his daughter expertly cradles the baby in her arms. She’s wise beyond her years, with a face that looks forty years old instead of ten. Sometimes he feels she sees things they don’t.

“This visit is a courtesy.” Cho buttons up his long coat. “We tracked your team’s cellphones and their GPS locations have stopped in Pennsylvania. I’m heading there now…unless anyone would like to come with me?”

It’s the mother of all olive branches, a peace offering.

It is also unfathomably generous, after how much trouble every single of them is in for this breach of protocol. Of the _law_.

Wordy wonders if he and Sophie will go to jail for just knowing about it, or if it will count as withholding information.

Cho’s brows stay up, a question.

Holleran looks to Wordy. “I’m going.”

“You don’t have to, sir.” Wordy cants his chin to indicate the sandals. “You’re off the clock and that’s rare.”

A gritty, sand in the ointment hardness sweeps over Holleran’s face. He points one dark finger at Wordy. “It’s Spike and Ed, and they’re my people, just like you. If I lose my job over this choice, so be it—they deserve no less.”

Wordy’s eyes burn but he smiles, and it feels refreshing in its authenticity. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

Holleran claps Wordy on the arm. “I’m counting on it, Kevin. I’ll keep you posted.”

With that, the two men are gone. Izzy still cries, softly.

Sophie flicks a quick tear away. “What are we going to do, Wordy? What if Jules doesn’t find them?”

The quaver in her voice sets Wordy off. He wants to cry too, wants to fling his chair across the room and spill Spike’s coffee everywhere because none of this is just. There’s no mercy in his veins, not for such a heinous crime.

“_Morning has broken, like the first morning! Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird…_”

This sudden bursting to life of sound, growing, is familiar at once. A tune Wordy has heard dozens of times from his wife while she cooks or gets dressed in the morning.

It’s still a total shock.

Wordy turns on his heel, slowly, not sure he believes what he’s hearing or if moving too fast will spook it. Shelley has both hands over her mouth. The corners of her eyes are crinkled—a hidden, excited grin.

Even Izzy pauses in her fit to listen to the tender sound.

Wordy has never heard this outside of the shower and bed times with Mom. Even then, it’s usually timid and breathy in an effort not to be heard.

Everyone’s eyes land on Lilly.

She sways in place, grinning down at Sadie, who has a hold of her index finger. Sadie’s gummy smile turns into a laugh, a baby giggle.

“_Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning…_”

There is complete silence, even from Peter, while they listen to a little girl sing her lullaby.

On Peter’s screen, a file is pulled up about ballistics and guns—a .38—for whatever subject Team Five is pursuing. Something about filed off serial numbers. Another screen shows a man’s mug shot.

And yet…Lilly still keeps on singing without one hint of consternation or unease. The contrast is a gut punch.

Wordy’s breath quivers in his lungs. He closes his eyes.

“_Praise for them springing fresh from the word_…”

Nobody speaks for a long, long time.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jules stands suddenly. “It’s a bag.”
> 
> “Not just a bag.” Greg points to the red symbol. “It’s a _biohazard_ bag.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you get the chance, please give the song below a listen. It was a massive inspiration for the tone of this chapter, the team's grief and desperation. Thanks to whoever is sticking with this story and still reading!

‘Like the butterfly effect,  
Wonder if we never met—  
Would I have lost  
My heart inside my chest?’

“Butterfly Effect” ~ Before You Exit

“You okay, sarg?”

Greg wonders if he’ll ever get used to hearing that. He flashes back over two years ago and these same words spoken by the same person. They’d been driving then, and it had been daylight.

Now, their breaths steam away inside the dank shelter of the factory. Even with both their flashlights on, it’s barely enough to see in the midnight gloom.

Greg sits down on a bench in the antique kitchen. “Yeah, Jules, I’m okay.”

The words are stale bread, flat and crumbling. Jules doesn’t call him out on the obvious lie.

Sighing, she sits next to him. “They’re not here, boss.”

“No.” Greg rests his forehead on his hands, where they perch on his cane at eye level. “No, they aren’t.”

Another dead end.

Hartford and Dean patrol the grounds while Jules and Greg agreed to search the building. Sam is working on getting their absolutely busted tires in working order before they have to bunk down for the night.

Fat chance.

The drive here alone, which took over an hour through jungle-like terrain, is one Greg will never forget as long as he lives. His leg still aches from the jostling. There's not much point anway, with the sirens and helicopters tracking their phones, growing ever closer. 

This is their last building to clear…and they’ve come up empty except for some medical tape, SRU issued boots, and the smell of sick in a basement.

They _were _here, at least.

“That means they’re still alive, though. Right?” Jules tugs her braid loose and restarts it. “We would have found dead bodies otherwise.”

Greg doesn’t say anything. He knows the statistics after a gap so long. Their chances of finding Ed and Spike alive…they have a better shot of winning the lottery.

Jules gives up, hair tumbling around her face. She wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. “Boss? I get why you stowed away in the camper.”

Greg nods, slow and absent. Then it crescendos into a head shake. “I know, logically, that it’s not my fault. Nobody is at fault except our criminals. But I still feel responsible.”

Jules hides her face in her hands for a moment.

“They’re my family.” Greg looks up at the ceiling, to push back a building pressure in his eyes. “If we find their bodies, Jules, I might just drop dead. Because short of a body bag, I cannot return to Canada alone.”

It’s not a fair statement, especially to Dean. But it’s the truth. Greg had Ed and Spike for far longer than anyone else in his life.

They’re his Aaron and Hur, holding his arms up for life’s battles, however big or small. He’ll be lost without them.

“We were never supposed to work.”

Greg looks at Jules, turning her words around in his mind. He can’t make sense of it.

She catches his eye. “The six of us, we were all placed on Team One all those years ago just to train and then be transferred elsewhere.”

_She’s right_, Greg realizes. _Most of our team was placed here temporarily._

Jules ticks their names off on her fingers. “Wordy wanted to teach but he agreed to be paired with Ed, his good friend, for a year. Lew was assigned just for training purposes. Ed wanted to run his own team, probably the only one who truly wanted to be there. Sam intended to get out the second he could, placed here by his father. I wanted to pursue undercover work; SRU was never part of my plan. And _Spike_. There’s a story.”

Greg leans back with a huff.

Hiccuping, wiping her wet nose again, Jules bows her head. “Do you remember those recruitment trials with him?”

“How can I forget?”

Greg thinks of the very first time he ever met Spike, that day out on the lawn for field tests, the striking sight of that lanky kid with a bruise along his jawline and hard fire in his eyes, guarded and mistrustful when they fell on Ed and Greg. Spike aced the written exam, so prodigious that city patrol basically begged the SRU to take him off their hands.

And yet how he struggled during drills.

None of the other officers knew what to do with Spike, so he was usually given a wide berth and isolated.

How he’d looked Ed dead in the eye with a defiant expression, blood on his lip from a tumble off the climbing wall, and demanded they let him try again. He'd pushed at their buttons, as if waiting for one of them to explode and get angry with him, prove him right. Greg will never forget Spike's increasingly startled look over the fact that they never did. They never struck him, they never verbally put him down, never did any of the demeaning things he so expected from people in authority.

Ed called different departments: did Vice need a gifted tech? Guns ‘n Gangs? He’d even contacted Organized Crime and Canine’s unit, training drug dogs.

But none had wanted Spike, the runt of his graduating class’s litter. The oddball who the textbook profile said should never have passed the qualifying exam in the first place. Too young to be an officer, graduating before he was even old enough to drink.

“That bomb charade convinced him.” Jules laughs at the memory. “I still can’t believe Spike planted a cellphone on the floor of the SRU lobby and called it when Ed walked in.”

Greg cracks a smile. “I personally love the part where he shoved Ed over and dragged him by his collar twenty feet down the hall.”

Once Ed had finished yelling at the indignity of it, Spike grinned at him and said, “What if that had been a cellphone triggered IED? I just saved your life.”

The team roared about that one for a while; so long, in fact, that Ed didn’t live it down for over two months. The team still teases him about it sometimes. Usually when Ed has to be dragged out of a burning building or when a bomb call is just a little _too close_ for comfort with regards to Spike’s safety and they need to feel normal again.

That day proved three things, all of which convinced Greg to hire him: Spike was strong enough to heft a weight that, at the time, was nearly a third heavier than his own; he could react quickly to a threat; and he wouldn’t give up, eager to help people.

He is both a fighter and peacemaker.

Now, the team can’t imagine working without him. He’s the whole reason Greg felt ready to contact his biological son in the first place, teaching him how to love a son properly. That’s an invaluable gift, one Greg will forever love him for.

“We proved them all wrong. Every SIU panel who sneered at us, the press, our own families.” Jules’ quiet, awed tone flurries over their heads. “We _lasted_.”

And in the SRU world, that is a miracle.

Teams hardly ever last more than a year, officers as cards shuffled and reshuffled into various, inconsistent combinations. The job is hard and vulnerability a feat to achieve between officers, to feel so trusting and safe with each other like the six of them are. Most of the time, gruff indifference is used to handle the wear and tear of human trauma. Because of that, teams don’t often bond at the level they have and thus never last.

Greg wonders what it will do to them if Spike and Ed don’t make it home—how they’ll unravel in spectral, gory detail, threads snipped and knotted.

The prospect of burying their bodies…Greg imagines himself standing before two headstones and mentally balks.

They’re too young, with too much still to do and see and love.

Jules continues to sniffle. Greg looks up again but it does no good, eyes bright.

He squints.

“Uh…Jules?”

“Yeah, boss?” Jules finishes sending a quick text to Sam. “What are you…?”

She follows his eyes up to the ceiling. Something is tucked, trying to be hidden, among the rafters. The only reason it catches their eye is because it’s shiny against the light.

“Are you seeing this too?” Greg asks.

Jules stands suddenly. “It’s a bag.”

“Not just a bag.” Greg points to the red symbol. “It’s a _biohazard_ bag.”

Sliding her gloves back on, Jules puts the flashlight between her teeth and climbs up onto the table.

Greg stands, keeping a hold of her ankle just in case. “Is it sealed? Don’t touch it unless it’s sealed.”

Jules nods. She shifts the flashlight to her hand. “I’ve got three empty water bottles and a syringe.”

“Is it…” Greg hates to ask but knows he has to. “Is it empty?”

Jules turns back to him and holds the bag out. Her eyes are grim. “Afraid so.”

“Any chance it’s labelled?”

Jules hops to the floor. She sighs and runs a hand down her face. “No. Boss, there’s a liquid line in the syringe. The cc count is quite…high…for a biohazard, whatever it is. A large dose.”

“It would have to be,” Greg reasons, voice much more even keel than his pulse. “If it was going to dose three separate bottles, they’d need enough to be effective.”

Jules walks to the door, pauses, and comes back. “Boss…”

“I know, Jules.” Greg closes his eyes for a moment. “I know what this means in abduction cases. Let’s keep the bag for evidence.”

Jules looks at Greg with her free hand on her hip, eyes rock hard, angry even while they swim. Her nose is pink. He sees her winding up to say something unpleasant and braces himself.

“Should we be looking for a burial site?” she asks.

Greg wants to shake his head.

As a veteran of cases like this, however, he starts to nod. “Probably, yes.”

Jules kicks the wall, beet red with defeat. Grief, thick and smothering, flashes over her face.

Greg’s cellphone rings, making them both jump. He spies the caller ID and puts it on speaker. “Hartford? What have you found?”

“_Parker!_” Hartford sounds like he’s running, panting and jostled. Greg goes to reply until he realizes Hartford isn’t talking to him. “_Dean, stop! Greg, we’ve just sighted the paint van up the road! It’s slowing down!_”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “_Drop him_!” Spike’s scream is hardly human and he’s shaking again.
> 
> Ponytail whirls around, gun lowered. He smirks at Spike. “Well look here: he’s still alive! Can you believe it?”
> 
> Tattoo scowls. “Grab him, Delancy.”

‘Oh this road has been hard  
On my feet, on my heart,  
Led me to the gates of hell:  
I know sorrow all too well.’

“I Surrender” ~ Aron Wright

Dreams and their twisted fog hover across the horizon of his mind, something about a candle under a frozen pond. It doesn’t melt the ice but ignites it, from shore to shore, fire flickering over the natural ice rink in a blaze of frost.

There’s smoke everywhere, up in the trees. A flock of birds flies away as the fireball eats its way through the winter landscape.

Smoke…the smoke doesn’t smell right. More like diesel. A gasoline smell.

_Wake up. _Urgency accelerates his heart. _Open your eyes right now._

Is it possible to get barbells or weight training for eyelids? If so, Spike thinks, he’s in desperate need of some.

They don’t want to open, and his chest has gone from tight to just plain fuzzy.

There’s a deadness in his limbs that he refuses to study further. He’s breathing through muslin now, just enough oxygen to tease at him and not enough to send blood to his extremities. They prickle faintly.

When Spike finally wrangles his body into cooperation, he opens his eyes…

And can’t see a thing. Not even the hand he waves in front of his face.

He blinks but it’s still there—a pitch black curtain enveloping the world. But that can’t be right…didn’t they just go to sleep at sunrise? He remembers waking once already, the coughing fit and realizing where they are.

Amish country.

Spike is so overwrought by that one that he doesn’t even give it a second thought. He compartmentalizes it in a box full of other screeching, ghastly things in the back of his mind.

Cold has such an intimate, skin tight grip on him that it’s almost like warmth. Heat bursts. Ed’s heart still beats away under his ear, much slower than before.

Spike half listens for the crackle of fire in his dream, a much better mental picture than his earlier nightmare, where Tattoo had squeezed at his chest until he asphyxiated to death.

But the only sound is Ed and the dying of an engine—

Spike sits bolt upright.

_We slept the rest of the day away—it’s night time! We were supposed to be on the move by now!_

There’s a voice, distant and too close all in one, “Got blood here!”

“Here too!”

Spike wonders how in the world they found a blood trail. Then he glances down at his feet. Though he can’t see them, he knows they were bleeding for most of the walk here—hopefully Ed carried him far enough to confuse them when the trail stops.

_We’ve got to get out of here. _Looking around, he has a sinking suspicion they didn't get as far away from the factory as they thought they did, especially when Ed lost the road, which they'd been keeping to their left, at dusk. Could they have accidentally circled back?

Either way, they need to be long gone by the time Tattoo finds them. Preferably somewhere with technology or at least a farmer he can flag down for help.

Spike shuffles around to his knees so he’s facing Ed. He prods the older man but there’s no motion.

“Ed?” He risks it to whisper the name. A slight breeze helps to mask the sound. “You awake?”

Nothing. Ed’s eyes are closed. Even through the numb, Spike can feel the skin of Ed’s eyelids under his fingertips.

He taps Ed’s cheek next, hard as he dares. Ed doesn’t even groan. His pulse is too slow, too weak.

“Wake up.” Spike trembles, and it’s not from the cold. “Please, wake up!”

“You got those flashlights, Rook? Come on!”

Spike glances up and then mentally apologizes to Ed. His hand hovers over Ed’s cheek. He can’t do it.

_You have to._

Spike winces with his eyes clenched shut. Timid, halting, he slaps Ed’s cheek.

“I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll never do that again,” Spike breathes. “Ed?”

Ed might as well be a corpse for how animated he is. A frigid splash of dread crashes over Spike’s crown. There’s no avoiding the truth, the symptoms they could only run from for so long:

Ed is unconscious, possibly in a coma.

_Oh no. No—_

“I lost the trail!” Tattoo’s voice is still far away but closer than before. “I told you we should have gone with the trackers!”

Spike closes his eyes again, this time panting out the fear and panic, increasing his oxygenation for what he’s about to do. For what he _has _to do.

Just the thought of standing is insurmountable. Spike does so anyway. He falls the first three times, knees giving out with the tight pressure inside his chest and abdomen. There's pain too, but he finds that the lack of oxygen works slightly in his favour that way, in the sense that he can't feel his injuries so keenly. 

The fourth time it sticks. Spike sways on his feet for a moment, hands out to either side. His ankles quiver but he steels himself and his trembling eases.

He retrieves the rifle and loops its strap around his own shoulders. The backpack he leaves on Ed, for cushioning.

_Here goes nothing._

Spike reaches down and grasps the shoulder of Ed’s sweater, where he lies on his back. Spike’s feet scrabble in the dirt for a micro second of straining effort. Pulse beats in his neck pause, an arrhythmia of physical exertion and pain, before Ed’s dead weight starts to move.

_Success!_

Spike walks backwards, pulling twice as hard for every inch of ground covered. It’s just like weighing day. He’s shimmied Greg Parker—and Ed, back when he was desperate to prove himself—across the linoleum floor of the SRU training room many times; this should be a cake run. 

_“If you can’t pull the heaviest member of your team,” _Holleran always says, _“Then you’re a liability.”_

Spike hauls them out of the forest depression and into the more open air of the clearing. It’s immediately even colder, with the wind exposed, able to rake its cruel fingers through his hair and clothes.

“I’ve gotcha,” Spike breathes to Ed. “I won’t let you get hurt.”

Though Spike and Ed are almost the same height, Ed has over thirty pounds on him. All muscle.

It’s the same story with Sam and Wordy, whose chests are wider and burlier than Spike’s. Spike sometimes looks at his bony body in the locker room mirrors and wonders if it’ll ever stop looking like it belongs to a teenager.

He dreads the day Dean bulks up enough to surpass his weight. The boy is already well on his way.

“We never discussed motive,” Spike pants out. “The whole reason for this fiesta. I’m thinking human trafficking, but that’s a working theory.”

He drops his voice an octave to imitate Ed’s baritone. “‘That’s great, Spike. But I knew that ages ago. Keep up.’ You probably have it all figured out, knowing your track record.”

The night wind increases, potent. Spike’s knees buckle at a wonky angle and he just barely catches himself on a tree. The bark is rough, snagging his makeshift bandage and sending a jangle of pain down his arm. Coughing, he tastes blood and spits it out.

Spike feels more alone than before, more even than when they tore Ed from his arms. Ed is _right here_. But he may never open those eyes again and there’s nothing standing between Spike and their abductors.

“They stopped here! I see our food, or what’s left of it.”

Tattoo and Ponytail’s flashlights are visible, little pinpricks of light.

Spike deflates. They’re about fifty yards away—exactly how far he’s dragged Ed since he woke up.

_We’re not going to make it._

Squinting, Spike can’t tell if either man has a gun so he can justify shooting them. It’s too dark anyway; he’d miss before being taken out himself.

The numbing cold is nice if for no other reason than the fact it means he can’t feel the gashes and punctures in his feet. Or the wounds on his wind-bitten face.

Blood…wounds…

_That’s it!_

He rushes back to Ed and kneels down, covering him with the leaves until only the man’s nose is visible to keep receiving air.

“I’ll be right back, Ed.”

Spike touches the man’s forehead with a bloody hand before concealing that too. He feels suddenly small, a child caught out in the woods alone at night for the first time in this big, cold country with no ocean or Italian language at every corner, lost and looking for Pa.

Spike shakes himself. “I’ll lead them far away, don’t you worry.”

He rips the bandage off his palm and coughs into it, making it oozing and sticky, so saturated it drips onto the ground.

_Perfect._

The plan is simple, tested, and true: he’ll create a fake blood trail so they’ll follow, miles away from Ed. Then, Spike either doubles back or goes for help and returns to his side with the cavalry.

The prospect of being _ahead_ in this game energizes Spike. He wrings out the bandage every ten feet or so. He’s sure to make lots of noise on the way.

“I’ve got blood!”

“You follow that,” Tattoo yells, much closer. “I’ll bring the van around. They can’t have gotten far!”

Ponytail’s steps are heavier through the brush. He comes so close it’s in stereo. Like a loyal puppy, Spike listens to him follow the blood trail right past Ed’s spot and deeper into the trees.

_That’s it…walk just a little farther…_

Ponytail does, swearing up a storm—most of it aimed at his partner—and wrestling with the distinct click-slide of Spike’s own service weapon.

Two can play at that game.

Spike whips the rifle around so he’s at least holding it in both hands and feels worlds better. In control of what’s happening.

And then Ponytail stops.

So does Spike, straining to hear. The flashlight is aimed in his direction for a moment and then swings back.

_No…no!_

Spike freezes in the dark, trying to hear Ponytail’s movements. They’re hesitant, confused, and then suddenly very determined.

“I’ve got him, Saul!”

The van growls to life in reply. The sound of trees cracking under the pressure of the vehicle turns deafening, their clearing swelling with diesel smoke.

“No!” Spike shouts it aloud this time, racing back, hardly aware of the branches tearing at his face. “Stop! Ed!”

Spike bursts through a particularly dense thicket to see Ed being loaded into the van, backed into the trees. He flicks on the rifle scope light, halogen and far too new. After so long in pitch black, his eyes stream.

“_Drop him_!” Spike’s scream is hardly human and he’s shaking again.

Ponytail whirls around, gun lowered. He smirks at Spike. “Well look here: he’s still alive! Can you believe it?”

Tattoo scowls. “Grab him, Delancy.”

“Do we really still need him?” Ponytail—Delancy—argues. “He’s dead soon anyway.”

“The officer’s a liability, I suppose.” Tattoo reaches behind him. “Just like you.”

Spike’s adrenaline goes through the roof. “Don’t—!”

Tattoo whips out the Sig.

Spike’s vision spins in an array of neon colours. He fires off a shot anyway.

Tattoo drops to one knee, but not before he shoots Delancy straight through the head. He clutches at his shoulder, a rose blossom unfurling upon it from Spike’s bullet.

It’s not shocking, not after being at this job so long. But Spike is already at his wit’s end, vision greying out, and he can only stare at the dead body beside his feet. 

By the time he resurfaces, the van is driving away. Spike screams again, feral. It’s loud enough to be heard even over the volley he sprays at the van tires. One hits, but Tattoo—and Ed—are long gone by the time Spike falls against a nearby oak.

He spits out a clot of blood and feels his nose streaming, the tang of it floating between his teeth. Spike wheezes with the breathless emptiness of an old man.

“Spike?”

His weapon is back up in a heartbeat. He hisses a defeated, wild snarl and glares ahead.

If he’s about to murdered out here in back country US woods, already dying from who-knows-what raging through his immune system, not a friend in sight, he’ll do so standing up. On his terms and with dignity. 

Death is no less than he deserves anyway.

“Spike! Guys, it’s Spike!”

Spike’s eyes are huge. He fights the shake in his hands to aim the barrel at a smaller profile inching closer. The rifle light slides around until it finds a head of brunette hair.

“Stay back!” Spike barks. His finger rests on the trigger.

“Okay.” The man raises his hands. His eyes are wide too. “Okay, I’m…I’m standing right here and I won’t move. Sound good?”

Spike doesn’t reply. He wants to take one hand off the weapon to rub at his bucking chest but he also doesn’t fancy getting shot. Who knows how many concealed firearms this man has?

“You look like a set extra off a slasher film. Wanna tell me what you’re seeing right now, Spike?”

Spike isn’t seeing much of _anything. _That’s the problem. His vision hazes in and out, jitters assaulting every inch of his spine. Hairs are straight up on his arms.

“We don’t want to do anything rash, huh?” The voice is soothing, if blocky and a touch nervous. “Just you and me, man. There’s no rush.”

The sound of running footfalls up the road makes Spike jump. There’s also the approach of a siren, at a great distance away. Coming closer.

The tone turns dry. “Or not.”

All at once, the number of people doubles, triples, _quadruples_. Spike presses himself into the tree, breaths coming faster now that he’s cornered. It’s all blurring together.

“Spike!”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Don’t press him back any more. He’s spooked. Give him some room.”

“The ambulances can’t get through the brush but Thomas and Ben are here with a cart.”

“Excellent. Hartford, get those ambulances to park down the road when they arrive.”

“You got it.”

“Spike?” The first figure waves to catch his attention. “It’s me. I’m—”

“No closer!” Spike bares his teeth for effect. He can’t keep upright for much longer. Once he collapses, they’ll be able to do whatever they want with him. “I’ve had enough.”

The youth turns to a taller, older man who places a hand on his shoulder. “Why doesn’t he recognize me, Dad?”

The older man doesn’t answer this. His eyes are narrowed in study, fingers ticking against his leg. He proceeds to do the last thing Spike ever expects:

He crouches down.

It seems to be an effort for him too. Hands help take the weight off and hold him up, a wobbling leg on the ground while he rests his arms on the other, stable knee and a metal cane. The whole effect is that he’s small, much too small to be an immediate threat.

Spike’s eyes dart around. His breathing speeds up in gawky polyrhythms. Is this a new trick?

Stars race around his head, a ringing in his ears, and he vaguely notes that his fingers on the rifle are blue around the nailbed.

He starts to aim at the older man instead…but something stops him. Pure instinct.

He physically, deep in his soul, cannot point a weapon at this man. Spike settles for keeping it in the general direction of a small crowd huddling in the dark. A horse appears in negative relief against all the flashlights.

The older man must be watching him, for his head doesn’t move.

Giving in to the urge and feeling vulnerable, Spike snaps one hand off the rifle to wipe some of the blood away from his nostrils. It unglues the insides so he can get a few more millimeters of air.

“_Figlio_?”

Spike blinks. The crowd hushes at unfamiliar sounds, language inflections, from a familiar voice.

The man says it again, lower. He sounds like he might be crying. “Ti sei perso qui, figlio? Huh?”

There were times, back in the earliest of police days, when Spike would balk at firing a gun. The finality and violence of it. Something inside him flipped just to prevent it, a fail safe. It wouldn’t allow him to be offensive to such an ugly degree.

He outgrew it, of course. Learned to dull the feeling and pull the trigger when needed to save lives. Qualification exams went well, at least where the gun range was concerned. So well that no one had any idea of his inner turmoil.

Now, Spike’s hands shake around the gun and he feels like that gangly seventeen year old again.

This has to be another dream. He hasn’t woken yet. Maybe he’s unconscious like Ed.

“Ti senti male?”

Spike hesitates. There’s no way this is real, the prospect of him, of _them_, being all the way here. If this is fake, if he’s hallucinating it…

He’s not sure his battered spirit will recover. The emotional savagery of all this has been just as agonizing as the physical.

“Piccolo?” The man’s volume rises in concern when he doesn’t get an answer. “Senti dolore?”

Spike’s nostrils flare. He nods.

Someone breathes a very loud sigh of relief and a woman next to him mutters, “thank you.”

Wait—a woman? There’s no woman in Tattoo’s crew.

Spike rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm. It helps, the world coming into focus even while his legs lose feeling. Everything clears.

And there they are.

Another question is directed at him—“Sei stanco?”

Spike’s lower lip wobbles only once. He nods again.

He’s _so _tired. The tired is down in his marrow and the tendons cleaving to his bones, one hundred pound bowling balls strapped to every joint with a cool fire. In an aborted motion, Spike drops the rifle. His arms swing, ragdoll style, and his feet roll forward.

It’s a lurch, an eleventh hour prayer before the world ends.

Greg still catches him anyway. He stands a split second before Spike moves. The others hoist him to his feet and Greg drops the cane to wrap Spike up in his arms, as much of him as he can reach.

Spike continues to shake…

But he closes his eyes into Greg’s jacket, that signature smell of musk and caramel coffee. The sounds, albeit emotional, of his team. His home.

And his knees finally give out.

“Whoa!” cries Sam. He and Jules brace their weight on the descent.

Greg adjusts without a pause, sitting Spike practically in his lap. He rubs up and down Spike’s back, hitching breaths puffing across the crimson stained skin. His tears are warm where they fishtail through Spike’s hair.

“It’s really us and we’re not a hallucination.” Because Greg always knows exactly what people need to hear. “You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

Jules grabs a quick kiss to Spike’s temple where she kneels. Then another one. She’s sobbing. “I didn’t think we’d find you! Our crazy plan actually worked! You’re going to be alright, Spike.”

There’s a flutter of small, warm fingers over Spike’s cheek.

_Dean._

Spike reaches up to grasp them, and Dean murmurs something too low to hear. A reassurance, one not really for Spike’s benefit at all but his own.

Sam’s hands, for his part, are all over him. He pokes and prods at Spike, unzipping the jacket. Spike is a limp patient while Sam sticks two fingers under his jaw and palpitates his stomach. He lists off injuries as he finds them.

It feels too much like Ed’s first examination of him in the woods, which sends a sharp pang of longing down his chest. Spike takes his hand out of Dean’s to squeeze his fingers into fists.

Sam’s touch instantly disappears.

“Hey, easy,” Greg rumbles. “It’s just Sam. Just Sam, and nobody’s here to hurt you. Easy.”

“Spike?” Sam asks. He waves a slow hand in front of Spike’s eyes. “You with me? Did something I do hurt more?”

Spike coughs into Greg’s shirt. He knows he’s spraying blood everywhere but he can’t bring himself to feel sorry. Someone throws a musty smelling blanket over him and oh _that’s_ much better, a scrumptious warmth. There’s hay sticking to the wool.

“Spike?” Greg leans back so they can look each other in the eye. “I know you’re a little in shock and having trouble breathing. But we need a verbal response, bud.”

Spike thinks of Ed, helpless and alone. Because _he_, Spike, abandoned him.

“Why won’t he talk?”

“Is there something wrong with his larynx, Sam? Did you check it?”

Greg ignores the Braddocks’ chatter. His eyes cloud with worry. “Spike?”

There’s a filthy slime all over Spike’s body. Inky and choking. It’s appropriate, a teaspoon of the punishment he deserves. He throws the blanket off too for good measure.

An increase of frantic voices fills the clearing.

“Can you talk to me, figlio?”

_I’m so sorry. _Spike shakes his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun story time: the difference in Spike and Ed's weight is yet another headcanon that I thought I made up but then, in rewatching the show - season 1, ep. 6 - they have "weighing day." They practice dragging Greg by order of weight, heaviest to smallest. Guess who's the lightest on their team aside from Jules? 
> 
> They even call out everyone's weight and Spike is around 165 lb, about twenty five pounds lighter than Ed. Thought that was neat. Justification, baby!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wordy goes cold. “Plane? As in…they’re going to ship two respected officers out of the country?”
> 
> “That was the idea. They had to make a deadline, the plane’s departure date. Only Rook was worried because one fought too much. Kept trying to escape and it almost worked a couple of times. They decided to put him down.”
> 
> ‘Put him down.’ The words are careless, with the tone of someone talking about a dog and not a kind man. About _Spike_.

‘Oh these memories,  
They keep on following,  
But now is the time  
To see what we can find.’

“Mountain Song” ~ Little Chief

“A mathlete?”****

“That’s what it says in the personal section of his file.”

Wordy flips through it. “This _has _to be bogus. Someone’s idea of a practical joke.”

“A CI on the inside of the gang compiled it from her research,” Leah points out.****

“What did she do, find it in a yearbook?”

Leah pins him with a shrewd look. “If you’ll read the file all the way through, Wordy, I mean he’s a mathlete _now_. They have those teams for adults too, you know.”****

Wordy sighs and ponders whether it’s too early in the morning for a glass of bourbon—or if he can sneak it down before his wife notices. He’s not supposed to be on alcohol with this new round of meds.****

“Like I said.” He hands the folder back to Leah and taps it. “Practical joke.”****

Leah’s eyes spark with mischief. A look she learned from Spike. “Why don’t you hand him some trigonometry and find out?”

Wordy resists throwing his cinnamon roll at her. Barely. Only because this is all he’s getting for breakfast and it has to last if today is as long as yesterday.****

Shelley, Sophie, and the kids finally went home at supper. Wordy and Leah slept on cots in the breakroom, which did not sit well with his already tired body. Holleran called at five am to say he and Cho landed in Pennsylvania and were on route to the team.****

Who are currently in hospital waiting for Spike to get out of a round of poison tests.****

Wordy waits until Leah turns the corner, out of sight, before leaning his head on the two way mirror. Before closing his eyes. Before relaxing the muscles in his arms and letting them tremor. He puts so much effort into holding them in throughout the day that sometimes all he can do is find a private moment to quietly fall apart.

The cafeteria cinnamon roll is good, fresh, but he barely tastes it.****

Emotions are unreliable. He’s not sure whether he should feel relieved at Spike’s rescue or delirious at the fact Ed is still missing. That the van got spooked by the sudden appearance of Dean and Hartford and drove away.****

At least they hadn’t shot Spike too, like Rook Delancy. Small mercies.

The trail is cold, even with the newly opened investigation into the offshore account that they now know was a bribe from somewhere...someone, in a bid to stop searching for the missing agents. Holleran and Cho found the paint van, abandoned thanks to Spike’s bullets in the back left tire, but no sign of Tattoo or Ed.

Now, this man at an interrogation room table at the SRU is their only chance of finding Ed. This _mathlete_, supposedly.****

Wordy startles at Leah’s sudden reappearance. She’s holding out a cup of green tea and an orange bottle. She shakes it to grab his eye.

He takes the tea in both hands but flips a brow at the pills. “Thanks, Leah. None of those for me today.”

“You need to stay sharp, Kevin. We’re the only thing standing between our team and not one but _two_ federal governments. Possibly more.”

Wordy sighs. “Has anyone ever told you how wise you are?”

Leah lights up when he takes the pills from her. “Not often enough. For you, I’ll make an exception.”

Her smile is radiant in the low lit room, and it’s hard to imagine, with the gratitude running through him, the days when they all hated her. This officer who replaced Lew.

Now, he’d walk a tightrope blindfolded if she asked him to. She’s phenomenal.

Wordy throws two white tablets back, washing them down with honey sweetened tea. “You’re sure he’s not playing us?”

Leah shrugs. “I’m telling you, Wordy—that’s him. That’s the guy Jules and I talked to at the house, posing as the husband.”

Wordy watches the man behind the glass, how he sits without fidgeting. Resignation in his dull brown eyes. A hideous patch of bruises ring his neck, like a collar.

“He just walked himself right up to a police officer on the street,” says Leah. “Said he would talk and rat out his partners if we promised to protect him.”

“Someone tried to strangle him.”

Leah nods. “And recently too. You taking it?”

An image comes to mind, of his phone call with Sam and the sounds of emergency room doctors shouting over top of each other in the background. The shrill alarm and 'Code Orange' being repeated over the loud speaker is burned into Wordy's brain. 

Sam's description of Spike, unresponsive and drowning in his own blood, is one that still gives Wordy shivers if he dwells on it too long. He can’t even imagine what they’re going through.

Wordy steels himself. “Yeah, I got it. Keep me posted.”

“Copy that.”

He sets the tea down and doesn’t even bother with the file folder. Doesn’t need it. Not only does he have most of it memorized, there are bigger fish to fry than this man’s seedy past.

There’s too much at stake—this has to count.

“Larry Peters.” Wordy closes the door behind him and sits down. Larry doesn’t so much as grimace. “That’s an awfully normal name for such a colourful guy.”

Larry glances at the mirror. Then Wordy’s hands, which he slides off the table to sit in his lap and out of sight.

“You’re a mathlete?” Wordy pushes. “I’ll admit, that’s a new cover story, even for us here at Guns ‘n Gangs.”

Larry sighs. “It’s not a cover. I’m trying to go clean now, and I’ve always been good with numbers. I’m also a freelance accountant. Totally legit, you can look it up.”

“That’s right.” Wordy smiles, devoid of any humour. “You used to be book keeper for Paul Bullard’s operation. Lost your employer and your crew when we busted them a few years back.”

Larry looks Wordy in the eye for the next part, convincing him of its veracity. “And that day was a wake up call. I knew the gangs would get me killed one day. Saw that bust as a second chance offering and ran with it.”

“Until this week.”

Larry’s face does a twist like Wordy just forced him to eat something exceptionally disgusting. “Yes. I’m a…friend of Rook’s. Old pals who used to work the streets together, you know?”

“Sure.” Wordy studies the lilt around Larry’s eyes. “Rook called you about a job. He wanted you to break into a house that had been vacated when the couple who owned it won big. Pose as the husband and keep the cops busy when they got your call about a gun and came running.”

“And I did that, my part. But he…he called me yesterday.” Larry’s voice shakes. “Rook said his partner wasn’t doing what they planned. Then I heard he’d been killed.”

Wordy can’t hide his open mouthed surprise at this news. “Rook was just shot at one am this morning, not even six hours ago—how did you know that?”

“News underground passes much faster than in your world.” There’s an ominous ring in Larry’s tone.

“You know what I find funny?” Wordy laughs, also without a shred of humour. “It’s crazy, really. You remember the day we busted Paul Bullard’s hotshots? Your bosses?”

Larry nods, eyes narrowed.

Wordy leans forward. It places him not quite in Larry’s personal space but just brushing it enough to be discomfiting. “There was a cop killed on that case.”

“McCoy,” Larry blurts. And immediately pales.

“McCoy, yes! Look at you with the good memory.” Wordy’s smile has all the warmth and appeal of a shark’s. “It left another officer, a good friend of mine, in a lot of pain. He had to plan a funeral and help the man’s daughter all in one week. And do you know what?”

Larry has enough sense to say nothing.

Now Wordy bursts the bubble, his face dropping and his eyes boring into the man before him. “That’s the exact same officer Rook brutally abducted. We just got him back. By a thread. He was poisoned, Larry. _Poisoned_.”

Larry’s sweating. Finally. “I didn’t know, man. I swear! Look, whoever Rook got mixed up with is no joke, okay? They tried to murder me last night outside the bar.”

He bares his neck, like Wordy can’t already see his lurid bruises under the fluorescent lights.

“Did you know about the plan to abduct two police officers in broad daylight?” Wordy’s voice is very soft.

Larry responds to it, sitting straighter in the chair. His handcuffs clink together. “Yes.”

Wordy’s eyes flash. “Do you know _why _they’ve taken my friends?”

“That, I have no idea about.” Larry’s eyes shine. Earnest enough that Wordy believes him. “I just want to stay alive, officer. Money was tight, you know? I got paid and that was it. Once the lady cops left my…the house…I snuck out the back.”

“Just like that?”

Larry raises a hand in the air as if he’s in court. “Just like that.”

Wordy sits back and Larry breathes a not-so-subtle sigh of relief.

“Rook knew the plan,” Wordy realizes. “That’s why our tattooed suspect shot him. Tying up loose ends so he couldn’t be identified or tracked.”

“The bee guy?”

A muscle works in Wordy’s jaw. “What do you know?”

Larry truly hesitates for the first time. He swallows, a loud sound in the otherwise silent room. “It’s all just stuff I noticed. Capiche?”

What little patience Wordy possesses begins to fray. “Just tell me, Larry.”

“I heard the tattooed guy on the phone, the day he showed up at my house with payment. Half up front, half once I finished the con. They never did pay me the rest…”

“_Larry_,” Wordy snaps.

“Okay, okay!” Larry looks at him with a nauseated brand of fear. “He was dressed, like, super well. And he spoke Arabic, alright?”

“Arabic?” Wordy is lost for a beat. He thinks this over, trying to eliminate any bias. “Our men on the ground described the man as white. Very much Caucasian.”

“Yeah, sure, but it was Arabic. I used to live in an apartment next to some Saudi grad students. The language sounded exactly like that.”

“Did they tell you the rest of the plan after this?”

Larry’s eyes shift around, as if these men can hear him even in Canada, in a nearly sound proof room. “Something about a ride.”

“A ride?” Wordy scoffs. “Do better.”

“A ride like a-a plane ride!”

Wordy goes cold. “Plane? As in…they’re going to ship two respected officers out of the country?”

“That was the idea. They had to make a deadline, the plane’s departure date. Only Rook was worried because one fought too much. Kept trying to escape and it almost worked a couple of times. They decided to put him down.”

‘Put him down.’ The words are careless, with the tone of someone talking about a dog and not a kind man. About _Spike_. It slaps the face of human decency.

All at once, Wordy stands. The pieces shift against each other in Wordy’s mind, not fully connecting but close enough that he thrums with the energy of it.

“Thanks, Larry. Someone will be in to process you.”

“You’ll protect me, yes?” Larry calls after Wordy’s hasty exit. “That was the deal!”

“And unlike you,” says Wordy, “We keep our agreements. Good luck.”

He closes the door on Larry’s loud demands and protests. They mute suddenly with the sound dampening walls.

Arabic! Wordy paces the length of the viewing room. Bee tattoo, Caucasian as they come, and apparently he—and probably his bribing employers—speak Arabic.

How are they supposed to find or compete with that?

The door to the viewing room flings open and Leah tumbles in like she ran the whole way here. She’s vibrating with excitement, eyes blown. He’s never seen her this hyped.

“We’ve got him!” she pants.

Wordy stares at her. “Got who?”

“Dean!”

“Uh, technically Greg and the others have Dean in the States—”

“No!” Leah holds up her phone. “Dean managed to capture a flash photo of the van driver when it sped past them, the very first ever. A full face view! I ran it through the international database.”

Wordy catches some of the whirlwind. His hands don’t disappoint, a blur of spastic motion and hope. “And? Who is he?”

Leah thrusts an enlarged photo and a clipped piece of paper at Wordy. “You’re not going to believe it if I just tell you.”

She waits while Wordy reads through the sparse docket. Their bee necked subject comes to life as a real person, a basic profile, a past history, an actual social security number.

A name.

Wordy’s brain overheats like a computer. It takes a second to shut down and reboot, and even then not all the way. Shock doesn’t even begin to describe it. If this is true, they were played before they even stepped foot out the door.

There’s nothing for a few heartbeats except a blank kind of awe.

“This has to be a mistake,” Wordy finally concludes.

Leah grins. “It’s not. I ran his real name three times and placed a few calls, to be sure.”

Wordy looks over at her, slack jawed. “Phone this in to the FBI.”

“Way ahead of you, chief.”

“Then call it in to Greg and the others. _Now_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized about halfway through this chapter that hospital code colours aren't the same in the US as in Canada! Hopefully I did my homework enough to make it believable.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gapes at him. His brows hitch higher. “Excuse me? Are you telling me someone slipped my officer _anthrax_?”
> 
> The doctor nods. “Pure anthrax too, not the refined stuff some bio terrorists used. This came straight from a manufacturer.”
> 
> Greg finally takes that chair, nearly collapsing into it with an earthquake in his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any doctors or pathologists who are reading this...I'm so sorry. I did a ton of research but I'm sure my depiction here is not perfect. Anthrax is nasty stuff, folks. Let's just say the photos alone will give me nightmare fuel for years.

‘Out of thin air you appeared in my life  
Like a burst of Technicolor in a world of black and white.  
When my heart was locked inside a box, you reached inside and now  
I see my future when I look into your eyes.’

“Extraordinary Magic” ~ Ben Rector

Being a cop, hospitals are an old nemesis. A double edged sword. Some of Greg’s best and worst memories are in hospital waiting rooms.

He’s watched more colleagues bleed out on a gurney than he’s comfortable admitting.

But then again, he held his son for the first time in a hospital.

Or the time…the time he watched a bomb on the news, thinking their boy was dead only to show up in the hospital emergency room and see Spike sitting there. Trance-like and unresponsive.

Kind of like he is now.

Well, that’s not exactly true.

Spike will nod or shake his head. He smiled at Jules and Dean when they told him of their daring driving adventure. They filled him in on everything that had happened, talking away, to keep him distracted from the pain.

He looked at Hartford with a grateful expression when introduced to him. He hadn’t fought Sam’s arms when they propped him upright in the horse cart and braced him over the worst of the rough ride.

Now _there’s_ an experience Greg won’t soon forget.

Like a scene out of time, Thomas and Ben had guided their horse-drawn, make shift ambulance through the dense forest to greet the EMTs, where their village met the regular highway.

It made for a peculiar sight: the two Amish men fretting, standing over the gurney with their hats in their hands, while a paramedic strapped an oxygen mask to Spike’s face. They’d both shaken Spike’s hand, delighted to meet Jules’ ‘younger brother,’ with profuse offers that he was welcome back any time.

Nor will Greg forget hearing those screams, running towards them…only to see Spike backed against a tree like a wild animal.

Aiming his rifle straight at Dean.

And the _blood_. It was a curtain over Spike’s face and sweater. Down his neck. Thumb printed along his ears and the tips of his hair where crimson hands had touched them. Dripping from his palm.

Even with all that, his lips had been blue enough to see from ten feet away.

How absolutely _stark terrified_ his eyes shone when they landed on Greg. Greg couldn’t even fathom what he’d witnessed and been victim of since they lost him.

The dead body of Rook Delancy was proof enough of that. Dean and Hartford saw the showdown while running towards the commotion, how Tattoo shot his partner right through the forehead.

Speaking of blood…

Greg shakes himself to the present and looks down at the clothes next to him in a sealed bag, his shirt and Sam’s jacket, painted with the remnants of Spike.

They’d made Greg and Sam take a chemical shower, but he still feels it on his skin. The ghost of a past horror.

Doctors advised Thomas to burn the wood of his cart. To eliminate any traces of whatever poison is fighting for Spike’s life. 

Yet more vials are taken from Spike’s arm. Two IV lines, both in his left wrist, feed him a round of heavy duty antibiotics, along with saline for the dehydration.

A biohazard symbol hangs from a clipboard at the end of the hospital bed. Any nurses coming into the post-op room wear masks and gloves taped to their gowns.

“Sergeant?”

Greg jerks at being caught absent minded. It doesn’t sound like the first time his name’s been said. The doctor gazes at him with concern.

“How’s your leg holding up?” he asks.

“Better, Doc, since the painkillers helped. Thank you.”

Scott Lightfoot is a young doctor around Spike’s age, Native American, and he’s still frowning. “Don’t you need to sit down?”

“Not until he wakes up,” says Greg, quiet but firm. “I want to be the first face he sees.”

“That should be soon. We took him off anaesthetic over an hour ago.”

Greg places a hand on the observation room glass. “Just tell me, Doc. Whatever it is, I want details. Is he going to make it?”

“Yes,” says Lightfoot, and Greg’s eyes flick to him in surprise. He’s been preparing for a death bed announcement any moment now. “We put him under mainly to suction out the blood and puss from his lungs and esophagus. There are internal sores, abscesses, all along the lining of his trachea and stomach—that’s the internal bleeding Officer Braddock felt.”

“Prognosis?”

“There are a host of symptoms to deal with: malnutrition, a dizzyingly low oxygen count, heavy bruising on his face where it looks like he was pistol whipped, strained muscles in his shoulders from a nasty fall, low iron—”

“I don’t want symptoms, Doc. I want answers.”

“I understand.” Scott nods with a grimace. “You’re his next of kin.”

Greg loses his breath for a beat.

He marvels at all the things encapsulated by that one fact, the close bond that a hospital will only ever read as ‘next of kin.’ It can’t even touch the depth of how much Greg loves Spike and the three people asleep in the waiting room.

“Doc, Scott…you owe me a truthful explanation of _why _he’s having these symptoms.”

Lightfoot sighs, long and subdued. He shakes his head, his braid bobbing, eyes also on Spike’s lax face and lips that have finally started to regain colour. His fingertips have gone from blue to a faint purple.

“There were signs Scarlatti vomited right after being poisoned,” says Lightfoot. “It probably saved his life in that it didn’t have time to digest in his system. That, and the chemical he’d been given was diluted. Smart move keeping the syringe so we could test it, by the way.”

“Diluted?” Greg turns so he’s resting an elbow on the window instead and can look the doctor at eye level. “With what?”

“Rat poison. A weak, off the shelf brand that isn’t usually fatal in humans.”

Greg tries for a professional tone. He really does. Something detached and objective.

In the end, his voice still comes out breathless and choked. “And the other component? I’m not blind. I’ve seen the labels on his chart. What was the exotic poison?”

Lightfoot looks uneasy—setting off immediate alarms in Greg’s gut.

“It’s the first time I’ve treated this,” the doctor admits. “I have no idea how someone got their hands on it in these parts. We’re a county clinic, for heaven’s sake!”

“Doc?” Greg’s clamps down on a fraught sound. “Please.”

Lightfoot’s voice comes out a whisper. “It was the bacteria bacillus anthracis, sergeant.”

Greg gapes at him. His brows hitch higher. “Excuse me? Are you telling me someone slipped my officer _anthrax_?”

The doctor nods. “Pure anthrax too, not the refined stuff some bio terrorists used. This came straight from a manufacturer.”

Greg finally takes that chair, nearly collapsing into it with an earthquake in his knees. His head is a gyroscope, its layers twisting in opposite directions.

“Anthrax,” he whispers again. “Those bastards injected his water with anthrax.”

“We gave him an antitoxin,” Lightfoot rushes to add, alarmed by the reaction. “Since Scarlatti never reached the second stage of an anthracis infection, it’s working. It’ll take time for his body to recover, a few rounds of antitoxins and some real food in small doses, but he’s through the worst.”

Greg covers his eyes with a shaded hand. Just for a second.

“It’s also not contagious unless Scarlatti’s bodily fluids are ingested. So you’re allowed to visit with him.”

Greg gestures to himself. “Thanks for the sweats. I assume you’ll burn our clothes?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“It’s not right.” Greg scrubs at his eyes. “This should never have happened in the first place.”

“Sergeant Parker.” Doctor Lightfoot kneels next to him. His voice turns sincere. “I’m sorry for what you’ve all been through. To be honest, I’ve consulted with the CDC and Officer Scarlatti’s case is rare.”

“Rare?” Greg peeks out. “Why?”

“Because most people, when poisoned, only get one type of attack—respiratory or GI. Not both at the same time like Michelangelo.”

“Spike.”

The doctor pauses.

“He likes to be called Spike,” Greg explains, voice faint.

“Spike, then.” Lightfoot smiles. “The good news about Spike’s case is that because the anthrax was combined with rat poison, the two elements combatted each other, rather than fuelled the reaction.”

There’s a dizzying amount of information to sort through in that, and Greg is as trained as they come, but even he cannot tease that into something helpful.

Lightfoot reads his confusion. “That means the onset of the anthrax’s effects was delayed. Since Spike had no food in his stomach to digest, it never reached his colon. In short, sergeant, we caught it in time.”

Greg’s gaze drifts to Spike.

Both men jolt when they see his eyes blinking open. Those beautiful, warm eyes. A nurse by his bedside throws a thumbs up at Lightfoot.

“He’s waking for good this time,” the doctor says, already grabbing a pen from his lab coat pocket.

“Do you mind if I have a word with him first? Before the others?”

Lightfoot’s eyes soften. “Of course. In fact, a walk might do him good.”

Greg manages to find his feet. He tests his balance with the cane and it holds. “Come again? Should he be walking when he’s this weak? Not to mention his feet—they’re ribbons, Doc.”

Lightfoot chuckles a little. He points to a wheelchair in the corner. “I meant a change of scenery—and quiet—is what we in the business call a ‘healthy extraction.’ Lying there won’t circulate his blood levels very well. Sitting upright will.”

Greg trails inside after the doctor. He stands back while Lightfoot shines a penlight in Spike’s pupils and asks about how the vertigo feels now versus when he went into surgery. Any pain, etc. He’s careful to keep his question to the ‘yes or no’ variety, since Spike still won’t talk.

“I’ll go inform your team,” Lightfoot whispers to Greg. “There’s a call button strapped to Scarlatti’s wrist if he needs anything.”

“Doc?”

Lightfoot turns back.

Greg swallows. “Just…thank you. This has been the week from hell and you’ve made it a little more bearable.”

The doctor gazes at Greg for a moment. His face is solemn now, but with a shine to his eyes, a fire. He bows his head. “You have a unique spirit, Sergeant Parker. I’ve never met a man quite like you. Or Spike, for that matter.”

This gets a smile out of Greg. “That’s because there are no men like Spike.”

“One of a kind?”

Greg looks at Spike, the way his eyes dart to monitors, all the tech in the room, and the sound of his free breathing for the first time in days. Greg's heart _roars _with the need to protect it. “Something like that.”

“We’ll take good care of you both, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and feel free to leave a comment!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Didn’t work.”
> 
> “No," says Greg. "It didn’t. But that’s not what matters. What matters is that you tried to save Ed’s life.”
> 
> Spike’s expression smooths. He calms himself with a visible effort that leaves Greg feeling tired. There’s something very chilling about how quickly he does it.
> 
> “He…” Spike swallows, voice a whisper. “He wouldn’t wake up.”

‘These are my arms,  
Come to them when you’re cold.  
This is my shoulder,  
Rest your head and dream of home,  
For there’ll be nights and there’ll be days  
It seems a long, long ways away.’

“Take Us Home” ~ Alan Doyle

Greg has spent every hour of the last three and a half days clamouring to get to Spike’s side. Sometimes he felt like he’d be torn in half if he was separated from his boy any longer.

But now…now that Spike is right here…Greg’s steps are slow.

Spike watches him approach, and though no more fear lurks in his eyes, they’re shuttered. Defeated.

Greg bypasses the only visitor’s chair to sit on the bed beside Spike’s hip. He’s not very warm, though they’ve wrapped him up in that yellow hoodie Sam brought along and two blankets. Greg tries to take Spike’s hand only for there to be too many tubes and wires in the way.

They end up with their thumbs tangled around each other.

“Hey, you.”

Spike nods to return the soft greeting.

“You doing better? Feeling alright?”

Another nod. Spike points to his chest.

“You can breathe better? That must be a relief.”

Spike dips his head. His eyes stay up, on Greg, unreadable. He’s not sleepy or groggy like Greg imagined he’d be.

“They tested the syringe Jules found while you were under and got a match. You know about your symptoms, the poison?”

Spike mouths a word to himself.

“Anthrax, that’s right. Couldn’t believe it and I’m so sorry they hurt you like that. You hear me? It was awful and you’re allowed to feel like it was awful. You don’t have to brush it off.”

Spike looks down. He’s a little stiff. Greg wonders what he’s bracing for. To be yelled at or to feel scared? Both?

Greg’s jaw ticks. He can’t allow that. “You wanna get out of this joint?”

Spike’s head whips back up. His eyes, wide as they can be when he’s so weary, search Greg’s face.

“If not,” says Greg, “or if you’re tired and want to sleep, that’s fine. Just thought you might like to take the tour. This is a post-op recovery room. They’ll be moving you to a regular one soon anyway.”

Spike’s eyes do a full circuit and then land on the wheelchair. His brow quirks in question.

Greg holds an arm out. “Your chariot awaits.”

There’s a tap of timid fingers on Greg’s bad leg.

Greg winks. “I figure if you push the tire with your right and I push the handle with my left, we’ll make it work. Physics, right?”

Spike’s face doesn’t change, but he fists a hand in Greg’s sweatshirt. A concession.

While the poison leaving Spike’s system makes him fatigued, it’s not the boneless frailty of a concussion or gunshot wound. Mostly because they haven’t given him many painkillers or drugs, not wanting to cancel out or dull the antitoxin.

His mind is clearly racing around; Greg can practically hear it and Spike hasn’t even said a word.

A tall nurse enters in a fit of good timing and between the two of them, they lower Spike into the chair. His feet, wrapped to high heaven, brush the pedals but he just pales and waits out the pain.

The nurse clips the IV pole to the chair handle, so that it will wheel along behind. He also unhooks the pulse ox and nasal cannula.

“You need any help?” the nurse asks, a dubious gaze resting on Greg’s cane.

Greg waves him off. “We’re covered. Just…keep our little excursion under wraps. We’re taking the scenic route to his room.”

The nurse laughs. He approaches with a mask in preparation of looping it around Spike’ ears. “Your immune system is compromised, so this ‘excursion’ isn’t exactly textbook. Gotta keep those germs away.”

With the cloth so close to his face, the whites of Spike’s eyes flare, all at once in a rush of fear.

Greg suddenly remembers they found a blindfold in that basement too.

“Hey, hey.” He rests an elbow on the chair and bends. “You’re here with me, Spike. No one’s going to force anything on you that you don’t want.”

The nurse’s eyes are sad. He covers it up quickly. “Here, Officer. You do the honours.”

Spike shakes himself. He takes the mask and puts it on, eyes flitting between the nurse and Greg. The nurse, in a sage move, steps back.

It takes a few tries for them to get the hang of coordinating. Spike pushes weakly on one side, Greg’s left on his cane and right on the handle, and together they achieve a snail’s pace of motion.

Spike doesn’t seem to care much where they go. Greg does all the steering, making sure his stronger push doesn’t burn the tire against Spike’s only good hand. He just has to nudge at it to match Spike’s effort.

While it feels a tiny bit deceptive to keep Spike away from the team before they can see him, Greg knows Spike isn’t ready yet.

There’s still something haunted in those big brown eyes. Something jarred loose that needs to be made secure.

They end up in what has been Greg’s favourite place so far. He’s walked the whole clinic during Spike’s two hour long procedure and in that time come here three times.

The head nurse is a hobby gardener.

They enter a solarium, all curved windows for half the ceiling and clear panes for the other two walls.

Every square inch except for the floor—and that just barely—is covered with something green or the vibrant jewel tones of big flowers. The room is balmy, much warmer than the rest of the hospital from sunlight and humidifiers.

A bench sits in front of the window, which looks out over the back park. Next to the American flag lawn decal is a small pond. Ducks, those left for the season, splash around in groups.

Greg locks Spike’s wheelchair next to the bench and sits down.

Spike doesn’t take in the flowers, though his eyes find the ducks. If Greg can breathe easier in this oxygen-rich room, he imagines Spike feels it too.

They just look out the window for a while, the sun finishing its rise over the tree tops. Spike remains alert, his chest working but calmer, at a normal cadence compared to when they found him.

The bubbles of toxin inside his muscles, where they bonded with the oxygen molecules, also seem to have dissipated. He no longer winces every few seconds, like during the ambulance ride to the clinic.

Greg finds Spike a much more interesting subject to watch than the scenery:

He twitches and breathes and runs his hands over the hoodie fabric, then a huge sunflower to his right. His fingers pirouette over the petals.

Greg thinks he might drown in the love he has for this member of their little family. He twists so he’s facing Spike. “You and your obsession with yellow, huh?”

He can’t see Spike’s mouth or nose behind the mask…but the tech’s eyes crinkle a touch.

Greg grins along. “When we get back home, I’m buying all the yellow confetti and flowers I can find and rigging them to blow from your locker.”

Spike starts to smile again, then his eyes drop. He squeezes them shut.

“Spike?” Greg shuffles even closer, reaching around the IV pole so he can touch the bowed hair.

Spike shakes his head, violent, frustrated. It strikes Greg yet again that Spike hasn’t cried, hasn’t broken down in anger or mania or even panic. Hasn’t reacted at all, really.

He got rescued and just…shut down.

Retreated deep inside himself.

Many people, in Greg’s experience, are not aware that ‘fight or flight’ response is incorrect. There’s actually a third, the most devastating of them all—freeze response. Freeze responses in trauma patients are much harder to overcome.

Spike is most definitely geared with a freeze response.

Not always, but certainly for things like this that are hard to process and mentally break down. He’s seen Spike fight—his surface level go to—but once in a while the freeze takes over.

“Spike, son.” Greg strokes his hair. “I want you to know that you don’t have to talk to us yet. I get it. I get being scared. Your voice, your decision to engage or not engage with a situation, is the only thing you have control over right now.”

Spike stills. He shakes his head again, slow and fizzling. The line of his shoulders shudders.

“L-left him behind.”

Greg’s heart races at hearing Spike’s voice for the first time in days. He keeps his face neutral but open. “Who, Ed?”

Spike opens his eyes and they’re troubled. “I’m not scared. My fault.”

_Shame_. _He’s punishing himself._

“Spike—”

“I left him there!” Spike’s hands ball up on the arms of the wheelchair. “He…he was helpless and I walked away!”

Greg and the others, obviously, haven’t dared ask for a statement from Spike yet. Just the thought of it is crass.

Now, Greg starts to wonder if maybe they should. If for no other reason than to understand the emotional context of what happened.

“He’d-he’d still be here if I hadn’t…” Spike bows his head into his hands.

“Spike, look at me.” 

He doesn’t.

Greg gently, carefully pulls the mask away from Spike’s face and cups it all in one go. Spike’s lips quiver.

“We _don’t know that_, Spike.” Greg won’t let him look away, voice resolute. No room for argument. “What if you’d stayed with Ed, hmm? What if they’d just shot you too? Sounds like they planned on it.”

Spike’s tense hand finds Greg’s sweater again. It tugs the fabric right over his heart. “I tried to lead them away. A blood trail. Cov-covered Ed with leaves.”

“Only they found him anyway,” Greg finishes, tone brittle. “You did everything you could, Spike. That was a clever plan.”

“Didn’t work.”

“No, it didn’t. But that’s not what matters. What matters is that you tried to save Ed’s life.”

Spike’s expression smooths. He calms himself with a visible effort that leaves Greg feeling tired. There’s something very chilling about how quickly he does it.

“He…” Spike swallows, voice a whisper. “He wouldn’t wake up.”

There are times, deceptive times, when Greg forgets that he was human long before he was ever a cop. When the dam of pent up stress and emotion can almost be forgotten in the current of the next case. He compartmentalized all of it: losing his family, that harrowing ride across the border, the FBI’s case and all its grisly photos, the blood everywhere…

Spike’s childlike tone for those four words is the tap that breaks the dam.

Greg moves in a frenzied rush. He throws his arms around Spike and squeezes him tight. Hushed words are exchanged—“_I love you._” “_Thank you for coming for me._” “_Always. We’re not leaving you._”—but Greg mostly just tries to plug the gushing wounds of Spike’s heart with his arms alone.

“Son, we’re going to find him.”

“Not alive,” Spike argues. “I know you know better. I’m not a civilian you can soothe with false hope. He’s not going to stay alive much longer.”

Greg closes his eyes and cups the back of that spiky hair. “Maybe not. Maybe I’ll have to do my search from prison—but we _will_ find Ed, you hear me? Even if it’s just to give him a proper burial.”

Spike’s arms twine around Greg’s neck. It’s familiar. It’s a move for when Spike is feeling both vulnerable and trusting.

It causes the first sharp needle of hope to pierce this hazy, depressed curtain over the world. Dizzy relief assails Greg. He feels the shell of Spike’s ear begin to warm up. 

“Yeah, Greg. I got it.” Spike turns his head and his nose is cold against Greg’s neck, like the rest of him.

“And what happened to Ed, to you both, is not your fault. Do you understand that?”

Spike is quiet this time.

Greg wants to debate, to rage at anyone who will listen that this sweet man doesn’t deserve this kind of weight. That he’s _innocent_. That he’d lay down on a road and be run over if it would save someone else.

Greg doesn’t say any of this. He doesn’t growl in frustration.

He simply hugs Spike close and rocks them for a long, long while.

There’s something of a debt paid in the action. For he knows that since Ed can’t hold their boy, Greg has to do it for him. To honour how far they got before being overpowered.

The thought of taking one more step, a life without Ed, is an Atlas worthy load upon Greg’s shoulders. Something deep inside him knows Spike probably won’t return to the force without his friend and mentor either. And that if he does, he’ll never be the same.

But whatever comes next, however dismal—he needs to carry their boy off the battle field. He needs to make this moment right.

Greg breathes out a laboured sound. “I’m proud of you, you know that?”

Spike is silent again. He _does_ go a little red.

“I am,” says Greg, staunch. “You escaped, from what I can tell. Dragged Ed a long way with anthrax in your system—I’m not over that, by the way. And you continued to fight when we found you.”

Spike’s grip tightens.

“Ed would be proud of you too,” Greg finishes.

Spike still isn’t crying or sobbing or anything remotely resembling an overstock of emotions to sort through. But his fingers brush across the back of Greg’s neck and they’re shaking.

Greg’s love surges up again and he kisses Spike’s shoulder. Even if he goes to jail for life, he’ll make sure Spike never has to live in fear again.

_I’ll take care of them, Eddie. I promise._

“There they are! Sam, this way!”

Greg looks up to see Jules standing at the door, waving down the hall. Her eyes are bleary with sleep, like Sam’s when he stumbles through the solarium doors.

Both of them get almost jittery with excitement when Greg pulls back and they see Spike awake. Their faces brighten.

“Doctor Lightfoot filled us in,” says Jules. She thumbs through Spike’s hair. “You’re going to be just fine.”

Spike nods. He’s shy again, wan and heavy eyed.

“Where’s Dean?” Greg asks, watching Sam tuck a blanket around Spike.

“He was out, boss. Like…_out_.” Jules flops down beside him. “Sam decided to let him sleep.”

“He’s not going to be happy about that.”

“No.” Dean shuffles in, eyes puffy. “I’m definitely not. You owe me, jar head.”

Sam grins. He’s crouched next to Spike and double checking the IV lines. Always more at ease with something to do or a way to help. “We’re all running on empty, man. Figured it was better to let you rest with how long this case has been.”

Dean doesn’t answer or take the bait. The older adults go still, on alert, when they see Dean’s lips turn down into something stormy. Sam stands, backing off to give the boy space but still close.

Dean rounds the wheelchair so he stares Spike head on. Spike’s eyes are a blank page, at the mercy of Dean’s polygraph gaze.

Everyone waits for the cathartic words, yells, the unspoken fears, the confessional of those torturous hours, trying to piece it all together. They’re long overdue to be spilled. Dean has held it together for so long and Greg knows this particular incident shook him up, terrified him down to his core, more than he’ll admit.

Finally, Spike’s nose twitches. He sniffs. “Sorry about your socks.”

It surprises a laugh out of everyone, including Dean.

He ducks into Spike’s space and Spike is ready, arms reaching out. His hands fist into the back of Dean’s flannel shirt, reassuring the boy of his presence, that he’s alive and out of the woods.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Dean quavers. “You’re not allowed.”

Spike’s lips quirk up. “Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.”

“You’re such a sass bucket.”

“Maybe I learned from the best.”

“Oh no,” Dean argues, muffled and maybe crying a bit. “Dad says you were like this _long _before I came around.”

“So you’re saying you learned from the best, yours truly?”

“Nice try.”

People don’t understand when Greg tries to explain it. The hyper specific sensation that comes over him when he watches both of his children pour out the love in their hearts to each other.

It’s a cactus prickle along the back of Greg’s throat, fuzzing up behind his nose, burning in little balloons until it reaches his eyes. Then he has no other choice but to breathe through it. Ride the rush. Only Ed, who has two children and says his favourite thing in the world is watching Clark waltz Izzy around the living room, fully understands. He’s experienced it too.

Jules stretches around Greg to touch Spike’s knee. “Good to hear your voice. Thought we’d lost you for a while there.”

Spike avoids their eyes. “Worst day ever, right?”

A beat.

The Braddocks frown at each other.

“Actually…” Greg speaks for them all. “A few days have passed.”

“That can’t be right.” Spike’s forehead cinches in his signature way, when he’s attempting to solve a puzzle. “I just spoke with Jules yesterday. We got the tip about the angry housewife.”

Jules grips Spike’s hand, to stave off the startle response. “Spike, it’s been almost four days since you disappeared on the gun call.”

Spike’s eyes shoot around. They find Sam’s, followed by Greg’s, searching for any falsehood. His mouth drops open, brows high. “What…that’s not…we…”

Sam is just rushing to intercept the impending shock when Jules’ cellphone rings.

“Hang on,” she mumbles, rooting through her pocket. “This is Braddock—”

Leah is talking before Jules even brings the phone up to her ear. The rushed babbling is audible to them all and it’s not even on speaker phone.

“Slow down!” Jules lifts a placating hand out of habit, though Leah can’t see her. “What do you mean you found his identity…?”

It takes a lot to catch Jules off guard. She is Toronto’s head negotiator now—her average day entails drug dealers and spree shooters and bank robberies—

But Leah _barks_ something on the other end and Jules breaks into an instant sweat.

“Tattoo is _FBI_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know Spike being wheeled out of post-op doesn't seem like very good protocol, but I had major surgery once and that's exactly what they did to me. They said it helps circulate blood flow better and get rid of the painful bubbles inside a patient's muscles from the anesthesia (they hhuurrrttt). Just thought I'd throw it in as a fun fact!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no yelling. She doesn’t strike him across the face or spit at his feet. No shrieked speech of outrage.
> 
> Jules simply waits for Hartford to meet her eyes and says, “He’s your son. Saul O’Leary is your son.”

‘Now I’ve been crazy,  
Couldn’t you tell?  
I threw stones at the stars  
But the whole sky fell.’

“The Stable Song” ~ Gregory Alan Isakov ft. The Colorado Symphony

If bliss is as simple as the absence of pain, then life is good. Life is _really _good.

“Is he coming around?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it working?”

“You doubt me, Saul? Be nice to the man who’s stitching you back together. Yes, it’s taking the cop’s cranial swelling down.”

"I still say we should have drugged or knocked him out for the whole trip."

"That would counteract any medications we give him to the point that he could die. And then where would we be, hmm? Probably in a grave right along with him."

Ed feels worlds better. The smell of leaves has vanished, no Spike in his arms, replaced by a soft surface under his head. Fresh, chemical tinged air vents up through his nostrils and there’s the pinch of an IV in his wrist, which must hold some serious painkillers or anti-inflammatory meds for how euphorically relaxed he is.

_Did they find us? Is it over?_

Ed likes this theory best. The idea that they were rescued while the concussion knocked him out.

Spike should be in the bed right next to him, being fussed over by Greg, probably while Jules badgers them both to go to sleep already.

It’s a homey image. Familiar. Comforting in its predictability.

Then Ed tries to move and a creak of leather around his wrists resists him.

When Ed opens his eyes, there is indeed a man on the bed next to him. He’s sitting on the edge of it, his shoulder being treated for what looks like a messy bullet wound. Not clean through. The entry site alone is a floret, peeled back by the burn of a rifle bullet.

He’s got an IV too, but it doesn’t seem to be working, if his tattooed captor’s wincing is anything to go by. A Middle Eastern man who appears to be a paramedic, tying off the bandage, nods to one of the pilots who steps out of the cockpit…

Wait.

_Pilots_?

Ed struggles harder against the restraints tying him to the gurney. He’s not in a hospital. He’s not even on the _ground._

Through tiny cabin windows, Ed watches fluffy white clouds pass by against a glossy blue sky. If he cranes his head just right, green patch work fields span into view, dotted with gold. It’s beautiful. It’s amazing to be in a fully furnished medical suite on board a private plane.

It’s shattering.

“Where are you taking me?” Ed croaks. He’s not dehydrated, thanks to the IV, but his mouth feels like cotton balls. Still, a snarl starts up in his throat. “Where’s Spike? What did you do to him?”

“Oh, him?” The pilot steps closer, face indifferent. The only slip in the emotionless mask is a hint of disgust when he glances at Tattoo. Then his eyes are back on Ed, mild. “I imagine they’re burying that poor boy as we speak.”

Ed stops moving. “Excuse me?”

The pilot shrugs. “He’s dead, officer. Saul here—” Another glare at Tattoo, apparently named Saul. The pilot’s voice is flippant. “—Decided he was too much of a risk, too much of a fighter, and gave him some of our boss’s homegrown anthrax. Foolish mistake.”

“Can’t say he went down easy,” Saul growls. He gestures to his arm. “The brat popped one in me.”

Any bolster leaks out of Ed at once. He goes boneless, leaning back and huffing through his nose. It does no good. Tears, plump and quick, slip down his cheeks in tandem with the droop of his gut, the forest fire flare of devastation. All that time, the blood, the coughing, the lack of oxygen...Spike was poisoned long before Ed found him, dying from the inside out. Nobody survives anthrax poisoning without intervention. 

_Spike…oh, Spike…_

Ed thinks of his wife, their children. Getting back to them in one piece.

He knows, even with a miracle rescue, which is more fantasy than reality at this point, that Spike’s wet, dying breaths will haunt him for life. They’re the last memory of their boy he has and something inside him, always rattling for a better way out, for a fight, dies. He can't even fathom returning to 'normal' life after what happened, having left their boy as a corpse in the woods because Ed was helpless to save him. Just the thought of life without Spike, holding a memorial for him, is enough for Ed to want to lie down and never get up again. 

The stillness inside Ed’s chest doesn’t stop his mourning, however.

His captors don’t care. They move fluidly around him, not mocking his hitched sobs nor doing much to assuage them.

“Are you in any pain?” the medic asks.

Ed shakes his head, swallowing back yet more tears. “Where are we going?”

The pilot cants his head. He looks almost…peaceful. “To your new home. Saul?”

Saul now has a laptop perched on his knees, an archaic cellphone beside him. “We’re almost ready. The connection is spotty while we’re in the air.”

Ed might have trained, beaten, the bias out of himself long ago but he’s not stupid. He notes the ethnicity of both these men, except for Saul.

“Is this about terrorism?” Ed asks. “Taking me to fight for your side?”

All the men laugh, real, surprised sounds. Even Saul.

“Not for us, it’s not,” says the medic. “Not at all.”

Before Ed can ask anything else, a second pilot steps out, this one Caucasian. “Sirs, we’re coming in for landing. You’d better strap in—this is going to be a bumpy ride with the field freshly plowed. I would prefer not to stop at all, but we need more fuel to make the jump from so far away.”

“That’s my cue.” The medic locks the wheels of Ed’s gurney and double checks the restraints. “Sorry for the barbaric method of keeping you from doing anything unpleasant. We know how well trained you are. If I lengthen one of the straps so you can eat, will you promise not to strangle anybody?”

Ed glowers at him. He's still shaking, reeling from the news of Spike's death. “You’re willing to take that chance?”

The medic shrugs. “My orders are to keep you healthy and alive. Eating is priority at the moment. You haven’t had solids in days.”

Ed is inclined to agree, the room spinning if he exerts himself beyond a certain point.

“Sure,” he whispers. “I won’t try anything.”

Saul scoffs but there’s no more talking while the medic hands Ed a thermos of corn chowder, watching with a keen eye—and a gun—while Ed sips at it. There’s a biscuit on the side that sloshes in Ed’s stomach for a nauseous few minutes, until hunger wins the battle and it sits.

He wishes they’d given him a plastic knife, something, _anything_ to pick at the restraints. He can’t even reach his boots.

It concerns him, deeply, that none of them have masked their faces. There’s nothing radical or passionate about their behaviour.

It’s…professional. Like this is a business trip and not an international abduction. Ed finds he's forced to psyche himself up to even want to try anything retaliatory, for now it doesn't seem as appealing. He's distracted by the shudder of tires emerging from the belly of the plane. 

"Hang tight," says the medic, strapping himself into a chair by the door.

Their descent _is _rough and they haven’t even touched land yet.

Ed caps the thermos before it can spill. “Where are we landing?”

Saul stops, looking up at Ed with such hatred in his eyes that Ed’s tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. “Nowhere you need to worry about. We’re not staying long.”

Then he knocks on the wall. One of the pilots swivels around in his chair.

“We’re ready,” says Saul. “The bidding is about to start.”

* * *

It’s an unusual spectacle, especially for a little county hospital like this one.

Though not even lunch time, every last person in the waiting area outside a private hospital room is slumped over, fast asleep. Though _fast_ asleep might be a stretch.

There’s lots of dozing and hazy eyes that occasionally blink open and the twitches of bad dreams. When this happens, Jules softly rests a hand on the person’s arm until they still.

Right now, to her surprise, it’s Sam.

“Honey.” She squeezes Sam’s taut arm. “We’re okay. I’m fine and Sadie’s safe.”

He doesn’t wake, but his forehead smooths.

Sam is a lot like Spike, despite how far he’s come. He tends to give people just enough of what he’s feeling so they’ll be satisfied and back off, his innermost, brittle emotions carefully hidden. In sleep, however, they're not so easy to hide. 

Mission accomplished, Jules continues her ‘rounds,’ a vigil over their team.

Spike’s room is tiny, hence why they haven’t camped out on top of each other inside it. Spike lies now on his side. The whistle of oxygen feeds up through to a cannula in his nose and on his chart is a new note about another round of antitoxins.

His eyes are closed, roaming around in the throes of deep sleep.

He faded shortly after Leah’s bomb shell phone call. The nurse moved him while Greg, Jules, and Sam held a hasty meeting.

Spike isn’t in any distress, but Jules lingers anyway, because even stacked against all the bomb calls and all the shootings he’s been through, this is still the most bone chilling assault on him yet, at least to her.

She soaks in the fact he’s safe like a sponge left in the sun.

Then her eyes catch what he’s wearing. Her lips turn up in a soft grin.

The yellow hoodie Sam brought now sits on the bedside table, replaced by an SRU sweater zipped up to Spike’s chin since he’s perpetually cold, thanks to the blood loss. Jules isn’t sure who sneakily brought it along, but it doesn’t belong to Spike.

It’s Ed’s.

It fits Spike’s arms, since they’re close in height, but width wise the fabric swims around Spike’s torso, not helped by the concave stomach that's now disconcertingly underweight. Not lethal, but just barely. His blanket has shifted at some point, revealing a pair of sweats—these are Sam’s.

Spike’s nose brushes the top of the sweater and even from an arm’s length away, Jules can smell the evidence of Ed, his signature whiffs of gun powder and cologne.

The whole effect is that it seems to be keeping Spike’s sleep calm. No nightmares yet.

Jules hasn’t allowed herself to dwell on Ed too much, the fact she’ll probably never see him again. Multiple law enforcement agencies around the world are involved in the case, so it’s in good hands. Mourning will have to wait until they get justice and peace for what's been done. 

A light tap rattles the door frame. “Has he shown up yet?”

Jules quietly closes the door to Spike’s room and then sighs at Greg’s question. “Hartford is a ghost, boss. He disappeared after Spike got out of surgery.”

Greg steals a quick peek at Spike through the window. “You sure we don’t want to tell him the truth?”

“It’ll make it worse,” Jules insists, like she has every time this comes up. Taking his statement before he fell asleep had been hard enough. “Do you really think it will help Spike to know that Hartford is—”

“Parker?”

They’re interrupted by a commotion in the waiting area. Jules goes instantly on alert at the sounds of their team rousing and the growing volume.

When she rounds the corner, she’s surprised. Not to see Holleran and Agent Cho, for they have called plenty of times since the plane landed in Pennsylvania, with evidence and ballistics from the chocolate factory still being processed by a federal team…

“Director?” asks Greg for her, his eyes wide.

Director Hartford isn’t handcuffed. This doesn’t stop him from having the same slumped, defeated posture as any other perp they’ve cuffed.

He looks dejected. He looks _desperate_.

Holleran shakes Greg’s hand. “Good to see you in one piece, Parker. We tracked our friend here trying to escape onto the interstate. We simply brought him along. Or…brought him back, I suppose.”

Sam’s eyes are groggy, but Jules can still read them loud and clear when they meet hers.

“Spike’s doing better,” she says. “No change, though the antitoxin is working.”

“You should all be under arrest,” Cho blurts, before Holleran can get another word out. "You've nearly started an international relations nightmare over this and I had a top official from _Homeland Security_ call me this morning because of the fact you bull rammed border officers while being shot at!"

"Sorry," says Jules in a small voice, and almost means it. Sam's lips twitch. 

Then Damien eyes them all with a burgeoning hint of respect. “But you finally found the safe house location of a known international human trafficker. CSIS, at least, has agreed to call it par.”

An older, white haired man stands near the back, flashing a familiar badge. “So has the FBI and our UN liaisons. Director Lazlo. I’ll be taking over for Hartford here.”

Greg shakes his hand too. “Greg Parker.”

“I know who you are.” Lazlo cracks a dry smile. “I know who all of you are. We extend our profuse thanks.”

“We also got word from our CIs…” Cho looks uncomfortable. So does Holleran, which gets their attention. “There’s some sort of bidding war starting on the black market.”

Everyone stiffens.

“A bidding war?” Greg asks.

“This is good, right?” Dean’s hopeful voice cuts over the rest. He stands from his ‘bed’ on the chair. “If there’s someone to auction, it means Ed is alive!”

Jules hesitates. So does everybody else, all of them too experienced to possess such candour.

Greg finally steps close to his son and clasps his arm. “Not necessarily, Dean. They could be auctioning off a different person or nothing at all, trying to make some money. I’m sorry.”

Dean tugs violently out of his father’s grip, the adults’ eyes following him with worry. His sniffling cuts to Jules’ heart. He paces to Spike’s window and back, his face grooved where his cheek rested against the back of the chair.

Holleran pulls out a laptop and sets it on the coffee table. He types a few buttons and shakes his head. “It’s all encrypted. We have techs working on it, but the bidding site keeps re-writing its own code unless you know the failsafe to key in.”

Jules tunes out the shop talk, watching Hartford sink into a chair, hands over his face. After a moment, she sits across from him, elbows on her knees so she can lean forward. Just a hair too close into his space.

When she found out the truth and went to confront Hartford, he was long gone. Perhaps that was for the best—for had he still been present, she isn’t sure she would have been able to hold back the verbal and physical beat down she longed for.

Now, Jules feels strangely…

Commiserating.

She gets it. Having had time to mentally place herself in Hartford’s shoes, all she feels is a deep sense of pity. She’d probably do the same in his position.

There is no yelling. She doesn’t strike him across the face or spit at his feet. No shrieked speech of outrage.

Jules simply waits for Hartford to meet her eyes and says, “He’s your son. Saul O’Leary is your son.”

Hartford shakes his head with an agitated frown. “No. I trained him from Quantico to his position as an agent. We’re not related.”

Jules doesn’t take back what she said. Having seen how two people who don't share the same blood can become such close family, she knows she's right, for the sorrowful, wrung out love in Hartford's eye is a look she's witnessed many times before, on both of her team leaders. 

A weak exhale, too high pitched to sound controlled, escapes Hartford’s lips. It’s the whine of paper disappearing in a fire, unraveling. Particles dissolving to their original, base elements. “There was a case, one of the first I ever sent Saul on by himself as an agent…undercover at a plant that had suspected terrorist ties.”

Leah read Jules the file. She knows what happened.

Jules still asks, “You lost him?”

“He disappeared. Just like that.” Hartford’s eyes flare. “I was his training agent, his mentor—Saul had a terrible home life and I tried to step in where they'd failed him—and one night he disappeared like he never existed. We searched for years, with no trail to speak of. I eventually gave up and we had a small memorial for him. His name is still on the wall of valour to this day.”

“And then he suddenly popped up seven months ago,” Jules finishes for him.

Hartford nods. “I thought it was a miracle! A second chance! I could save him like I wanted to five years ago.”

Sam jumps in, hovering over his wife’s shoulder. He speaks to be heard over Greg and the agents’ low murmurs. “Only it didn’t work out that way.”

Hartford clenches his jaw so hard that tendons pop. It’s a tight, primal action. “I thought…I thought he’d simply been kidnapped, held hostage. But there was no ransom demand. No word of him anywhere. Then he appears overseas, in Afghanistan, sporting a new tattoo and working for someone I can’t find.”

Jules weighs the misery soup in Hartford’s eyes and decides he needs to hear it. “Saul isn’t like the others, Director. From what we can tell based on Spike’s statement, he isn’t brainwashed or confused. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

Hartford slides his hands over his face again.

Sam’s voice hardens a little. “You were never assigned this case, were you?”

“Actually,” Lazlo pipes up. “Being so emotionally involved with this case, we sent him on leave three months ago. Which I see he didn’t adhere to.”

“If you know something, anything,” says Jules to Hartford, “you need to tell us.”

“You lied to us, to the Bureau. You recognized who the kidnapper was seven months ago and kept it to yourself.” Sam’s voice climbs. “I’ll even bet _you _were the one who sent out the kill order.”

Jules swivels to place a placating hand on Sam’s chest. “Honey, calm down. That doesn’t make any sense. Sure, he manipulated us to help find Saul but that doesn’t—”

“No!” Sam’s eyes are deadly now. “He risked all of our lives—Spike and Ed’s lives—to find his protégé. That isn’t right. We nearly got shot!”

“Sam—”

“No, Jules, he doesn’t just get to walk away—”

“We have a dirty agent in the Bureau.”

Lazlo’s voice stops everyone in their tracks. Even Holleran looks away from his screen to blink, shocked, at the director.

Nodding, satisfied he has their attention, Lazlo points to Hartford. “Your instincts were right, William. This case has been shoved under the rug from the beginning. Paper trails shunted or disappearing. Whoever Saul is working for has an agent, most likely several top ranking agents, in his pocket through that bribing account.”

“Or,” says Greg, “Saul’s boss is an important figure, a sleeping bear no one wants to poke at.”

Jules nods before he finishes speaking. This makes the most sense.

Sam is still bristling. “So you mean to tell me that _our friends_ are paying for the FBI’s mess?”

Lazlo sighs. “That’s not exactly what I meant…”

“And if they do have Ed,” Holleran cuts over him, “then we have no way to stop them. This site is unhackable.”

Jules wishes he hadn’t spoken, for it adds fuel to Sam’s already angry fire. His body language is controlled but his expression creases into a glower.

“You did this.” He points at Hartford. “You’re responsible.”

Hartford straightens, eyes sharp. “I did what I had to for my agent. My protégé. You would all take the same steps in this scenario.”

“I wouldn’t lie to the family of a kidnapping victim!” Sam shoots back.

Hartford stands. “This was my only chance! This was _it_. Your stolen men were the first solid lead in five years. Was I supposed to throw that away?”

“No.” Sam’s nose wrinkles in his mounting ire. “You were supposed to go about this the right way—”

“Right way?” Hartford goes red. “There _is _no right way when it comes to saving people! We do what we have to and that’s it!”

Jules steps between them. “Okay. We get it. There’s mistrust on both sides and—”

“You never would have found Scarlatti if it weren’t for me!” Hartford’s volume matches Sam’s now.

Holleran jumps in. “Yes, they would have. Dean Parker put this together long before you did. You needed us more than we need you.”

“That’s rich,” says Hartford, “coming from the team that Fast and Furious-ed their way through an international border crossing. Very professional.”

The shouting match continues, Sam’s hands wadded into fists. Greg limps to Jules’ side as backup, trying to diffuse the hostility.

Doctor Lightfoot comes scurrying out to the waiting area. “Folks, if you could please keep it down…”

“We’re running out of time,” Holleran frets, hardly hearing him. Lazlo joins the commander in front of the laptop. “This bidding closes in an hour.”

Lightfoot grabs Hartford’s arm. “That’s enough, Director. Don’t make me call security.”

“And if it hadn’t been for you,” Sam is raging in Hartford’s face, “we might have _both_ Ed and Spike in that hospital room right now!”

“What?” Hartford’s shoulders twitch. “You’re blaming me and not the officer who let his unconscious friend get taken?”

Sam has both hands twisted in Hartford’s shirt before Jules can suck in a horrified breath.

It might have come to blows then. Sam wears all the electric eyed fervour of a man ready to round house punch someone in the jaw. Without restraint.

Jules lunges for his reared back arm, for all the good it will do—

“Let me take a crack at the laptop.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They…” Spike’s voice breaks and he has to start again. “They messaged asking if we wanted Ed wiped first. I said no, to stall for time, but…”
> 
> “Wiped?” Dean grabs at his father’s arm. “Did he just say _wiped_?”

‘“Be kind to yourself,”  
I know it’s hard to hear it when that anger in your spirit  
Is pointed like an arrow at your chest,  
When the voices in your mind are anything but kind.’

“Be Kind to Yourself” ~ Andrew Peterson

There’s a messy tangle of noise, so the only reason they hear the calmly spoken voice is because Greg and Scott jump in unison towards it and everyone turns to look.

The distraction is enough for Sam to get a hold of himself, pushing Hartford roughly away. Hartford stumbles.

“Spike!” Greg grasps him by the elbow. “You took the oxygen out.”

Dean darts into his room and returns with the rolling tank, flushed and anxious. He's clutched Spike's bandaged hand at some point in both of his own, refusing to let go. Lightfoot thanks him quietly and slides the cannula back into Spike’s nose.

“You’re not supposed to be walking or out of your room,” says Greg.

“It was getting too noisy to sleep.” Spike throws a look at Sam.

Jules catches the tech when he starts to sway. “At least sit down.”

Spike does so on wobbly feet. Since Greg can’t support his weight anymore, Sam rushes over to brace his friend around the back so the pressure can’t reopen stitches along the arches of his feet.

“Good to see you, Commander,” says Spike.

Holleran’s tough expression curves into something affectionate at the words. “Likewise, Michelangelo. You okay?”

“I’m great.”

Sam huffs. “I’ve heard that one before.”

Spike takes Lazlo’s spot in the hard backed waiting room chair. Then he suddenly does a double take at Cho. “I remember you.”

Cho’s smile is weak. “You turned me down every single time I came to your door.”

Greg gasps, gaze widening. “I knew you looked familiar! You’re the one who kept sending Spike recruitment bribes for CSIS!”

Jules’ eyes darken. There used to be a rolling stable of people trying to lure Spike to switch careers and work for them instead—money, condos, airfare, you name it and someone probably tried to use it as incentive. The team came to hate the sight of a suited figure with a guest pass and a too saccharine smile wandering into the SRU. Especially when said smile landed on Spike, like he was a particularly good specimen.

“Recruitment bribes?” Holleran asks with narrowed eyes.

Spike shakes his head, eyes sparking with amusement. “Fruit baskets and new toys, mostly. I have to thank you for that robot I never sent back.”

“For all the good it did. You’re something else, Scarlatti.” Cho shakes his hand. “And in a way I’m glad you never came to work for us. Something tells me these people need you more. They’re crazy.”

“Told you,” Dean mutters. Seating himself as close as possible to Spike, his grip has tightened enough that his knuckles are white. 

“So.” Spike gestures to the laptop with raised eyebrows at Lazlo. “May I, sir?”

Lazlo glances at Cho. “He’s won’t mess this up? He’s good?”

All the Canadians in the room light up with wicked grins. It’s a familiar question when they’re out on a case. They’ve been asked that of Spike more times than Jules can recount.

Greg answers the same way he always does. “He’s the best. Watch the magic happen.”

And Spike snorts, with the same half-hearted irritation he expresses every time. “It’s not magic, Greg.”

“It’s logical paradigms and commands in logic gate based lines of code and script.” Greg rolls his hand. Even Jules can tell he got that terminology wrong, most likely on purpose just to tease Spike. “Yeah, yeah.”

Spike smiles but it fades quickly. He looks straight at Lazlo. “I lost Ed once. You can be damned sure I won’t do it a second time.”

Lazlo immediately hands Spike the laptop. 

The tech is clacking away before it hits his knees. Figuring out how to type is a little stiff, with the bandage, once Dean reluctantly releases it, but he manages.

“We talked about this.” Greg keeps his voice low while he stoops to be at eye level with Spike. “It’s not your fault. You have nothing to atone for.”

Spike doesn’t answer.

“Are you hearing me, Spike?”

“I can do this.” Spike spares a fast, pointed look for Greg and then his eyes are back on the screen. “I’m sitting up, easier on my lungs, and it’s not physically demanding.”

“That’s avoiding what I said, but okay.”

Lightfoot kneels behind Spike in the waiting room chair, a stethoscope to his back and two fingers against his neck. He checks his analogue watch while counting the pulse beats. Greg mouths a question at him and the doctor nods.

Jules has another question. “How much did you hear?”

This time Spike’s intense eyes are for Hartford. “Enough.”

Hartford’s brazen pride from minutes earlier drains away. He gazes at Spike with agony, a knowing brand of desolation, and something haunted, like he's watching a ghost in real time. 

Spike murmurs in his throat while typing furiously, syllables of self talk problem solving Jules can’t decipher. In comparison to the yelling, it’s quiet—yet somehow ten times more on edge.

Everyone, even Lightfoot, is huddled around Spike. Trying not to hope and failing.

“Can you stop the sale?” asks Holleran.

“Nope.” A crease sinks between Spike’s brows. “That’s not what I’m doing at all.”

Cho shifts forward. “What—?”

Greg stays the young agent with just a raised palm. He doesn’t have to say a word and Cho backs down. It’s a testament to how much Greg has earned all their respect.

“Then how are we going to find Ed?” Dean asks.

Spike doesn’t look away from the screen, yet somehow he knows exactly where the boy's shoulder is. He pats it.

“I’m going to rig this system to outbid them.”

Sam leans back and Holleran swears quietly. Even Jules is taken aback by that one.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just shut the website down?” Greg takes a seat perpendicular to Spike. “Then no one can get their hands on Ed.”

“And Saul probably kills him, since he has no value aside from marketability.”

Hartford goes pale.

“No,” says Spike, gentle. He throws an empathetic look at the man, forgiving to the end. “The best way to get a step ahead of our trafficking ring is to be the bigger buyer. Then they’ll give me his location. I would trace it but the IP address is bouncing around the world; it would take too much time.”

“We don’t have that kind of money,” Cho argues. “And we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“They’re not terrorists.” Spike quirks a brow. “If I learned nothing else, it’s that they didn’t operate under ideology. This is about money, plain and simple. So we’ll speak their language.”

Lazlo sits next to Greg, effectively catching Spike’s attention. “You may not have that kind of money, but we do.”

Spike’s fingers halt altogether. “You’d do that for us?”

The aging director doesn’t light up, not in the way one would expect. But his freckled wrinkles get deeper, and he squeezes Spike’s knee. “For good people like you? Of course.”

Spike nods back. “I heard I have you to thank for my hospital room too. Not cheap and we didn’t have the pocket change to pay for it.”

“Pay?” Dean’s face twists in confusion. Then all at once it smooths. “Oh yeah! Right…”

Greg smiles at his son. “We’re in the States, Dean. Par for the course here.”

“Besides.” Lazlo writes down an account number for Spike to key in. “You plucky Canucks have made more headway on this case in one weekend than we have in half a decade.”

Spike doesn’t answer or join in the relieved looks.

It sets Greg on the alert. “Spike?”

The tech shivers faintly. He breathes shallow, even with the fresh oxygen. Sam tucks a blanket around his legs and looks worried it isn’t working until they realize his shakes are not from the blood loss or cold at all.

Jules grasps Spike’s wrist.

He looks at her with a gaze that floats in absent waves. “We won the bid. We're to meet them at a crop duster airport west of here. Farm country.”

Everyone catapults to their feet.

Lazlo is already on a cellphone, coordinates blinking on screen. The agents mill around each other, all speaking at once. Holleran rushes off to gas the rental, Sam hot on his heels with a duffel of borrowed ammo in hand.

But Jules feels her own heart speed up in response to something tumbling in those eyes.

She clenches Spike’s hand again, hoping to halt the spiral. “We’ll get him back. You rest and Ed will be right next to you when you wake up. Okay? You’ve done your part.”

“Good work,” says Greg. “That was amazing. You never cease to impress me.”

Spike flinches, paling.

Dean feeds off the silent frenzy, nudging his brother with a jittery knee. “Spike?”

“They…” Spike’s voice breaks and he has to start again. “They messaged asking if we wanted him wiped first. I said no, to stall for time, but…”

“Wiped?” Dean grabs at his father’s arm. “Did he just say _wiped_?”

Greg’s brows draw low over fiery eyes. “Let’s go.”

“I’m coming too.” Spike shuffles to standing with Lightfoot’s help.

“Oh no.” Greg pushes at his shoulder. “You’re barely stable as it is and the poison’s still working through your compromised immune system. You are not getting in the middle of an active federal take down.”

“Yes.” Spike stands his ground, glare leveled at Greg. “I am.”

The hard tone gives Greg pause. His eyes drift around Spike’s face, reading the subtle cues and though Spike’s body may be weak right now—his spirit is a forest fire. Jules can see it and Greg must too, nodding.

“Alright.” Greg points a warning finger at Spike. “But you’re staying in the truck with Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this whole chapter ages ago and then went...WAIT! They would have to _pay_ for a hospital room. Then I proceeded to scramble and fix it haha. I never usually think about those little cultural differences!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike stumbles not for the airplane door. He doesn’t wave at Jules to shoot out the tires, no tracker in his hand to throw at one of the windows.
> 
> Spike runs right in front of the plane.

‘Heed the sirens, take shelter,  
Flee the fire that devours.  
But the sight held me fixed  
Like a bayonet against my throat.’

“Pale White Horse” ~ The Oh Hellos

“Find him too? Are you sure? That might involve extracting him from a hospital.”

“_We have to, Saul. Our choices are limited with the authorities this close…this has never happened before and the poisoned one has seen your face. I’m very disappointed._”

“I’m not sure I can move up the timeline. You’ve never been this _demanding _before.”

A pregnant pause.

“_Is that insubordination, O’Leary?_”

Saul bristles. “I’m not one of your toy soldiers that you can manipulate and reprogram!”

“_I can do much worse than something so blissful to you, son._”

Saul’s jaw does a slow roll, like he’s balancing marbles between his teeth.

“_Do you understand?_”

“…Yes, sheikh. We’ll be ready.”

“_So will I._”

* * *

For the third time in as many minutes, a hand presses to Spike’s forehead. In the ablution circuit, it stops at Spike’s wrist, and then checks the dilation levels of the oxygen tank at their feet. Spike submits to it, trying not to smile because he knows it will offend the hand’s owner.

Muttering fills the back seat of the rented SUV, and pulse ox readings on Spike’s left, wrapped hand are consulted again.

“Dean,” Spike finally cuts in. “I’m not going to keel over in the ten minutes left of this drive. Or four…with how illegally fast we’re going.”

Sam throws him a dirty look in the mirror. “Admit it. You’re just envious it’s not you doing the stunt driving.”

“I’m qualified for tactical driving with a vehicle, not a rocket launcher.”

“Hey,” Sam argues, his grin betraying him, “I’m just trying to keep up with Holleran in front of us. Who knew he could drive like that?”

The banter as distraction trick doesn’t work. Dean frowns at low oxygen counts on the tiny device screen clipped to Spike’s wrist.

“This outing is hugely against poison protocol. Are you sure you’re okay?” he finally asks.

Is he? Spike takes stock of himself. What counts as okay might be the better question.

Though cold, Spike isn’t suffocating on his own blood anymore or so lightheaded it’s causing blackouts. Mostly he just feels…empty. Hollow. Like his body is a pumpkin carved out with its insides on the table and a burning flame in its belly.

Right on cue, Greg snaps his fingers from the passenger seat in front of Spike. “Keep eating. Your blood sugar count is still low. Lightfoot’s orders.”

Fondly irritated, Spike obeys, sipping at beef broth and another of the cheese crackers in his lap. He claps off his hands once he’s finished.

The chalky concoction they gave him to line the ulcers still healing in his stomach seems to be working. Though uncomfortable, he’s not in any pain.

“Now I know where Dean gets it,” Spike mutters around a mouthful. “Family of mother hens.”

“What was that, Scarlatti?”

“Nothing.”

Greg twists in his seat to flick Spike’s knee. “Good choice.”

Sam asks what Spike’s been wondering. “Shouldn’t we opt for stealth? If they see us coming, it will tip off the kidnappers.”

“We will,” says Lazlo, on Dean’s other side. He finishes buttoning up a sleek, silver blazer. “I’ll be posing as our rich buyer. You lot, in this black caravan of vehicles, are my security team.”

“Once the exchange is made, the FBI and CSIS will have legal grounds to search the plane.” Greg makes sure he holds Spike’s eyes when he explains. “Then we’ll walk out with Ed. No problem. Lightfoot is already waiting at the hospital for his arrival.”

Spike nods, because it’s the only way to get Greg’s stare off his face. He doesn’t want Greg reading the hooked claws of doubt in his mind. The holocaust of guilt that has immolated his self assurance.

“There it is!”

Dean’s excited cry zaps the interior of the SUV. They gaze through the windshield at a private, farm air strip. Spike researched this place, a launching point for crop dusters, mainly. The surrounding miles of fields are crackled and plowed from the recently finished harvest.

Most importantly—it’s deserted.

The runway is grass, freshly mowed, and a high end, private plane sitting on it doesn’t fit with the scenery. It’s flashy, too chrome and shining for the back country tableau.

The plane is currently hooked up to a fuel line coming from a small hangar to the runway’s right. A mechanic finishes up and rolls the fuel tube away.

Holleran’s SUV banks away, towards the brush, carrying Cho and Jules who will act as liaison with authorities and sniper duties, respectively, Holleran on getaway driving duties. This clears the way for Sam to pull up to the runway, where a pilot stands waiting.

“There’s our cue,” says Lazlo. “Pilot with the white wingtip shoes, right?”

Spike nods and points. “That’s our contact. He’s brokering the exchange and flying you, their ‘client,’ and your new cargo to anywhere in the world of your choosing.”

“Buggers,” says Lazlo under his breath.

Sam hums his agreement.

“Mic check?” Spike retrieves the laptop from a bag at his feet. “It’s in the top button on your suit jacket, so try not to touch or obscure it.”

Lazlo grins at Spike. “I’ve done sting operations many times, kid. But thank you.”

Spike does an irreverent salute and Greg flicks him again.

When the pilot catches sight of them, Sam is quick to put on a pair of sunglasses and Greg tucks his cane away. They have to look as professional and intimidating as possible. Spike and Dean sit in the back, where the windows are tinted.

Sam’s phone chirps with a quick text and he shows it to the others. “Jules has a sniper perch. She’s got you covered, Director.”

“I believe it, with her track record.”

Greg pats Lazlo’s shoulder. “Good luck.”

“If this goes to plan,” he fires back, “we won’t need luck.”

_He’s there._ Spike feels again in awe of this fact. _Ed is right there._

Spike’s last image of the man still preys at him, in a coffin of leaves that Spike built with his own hands. The unconscious face. Head wound hot under his hand. Can Ed ever forgive him for what he did, abandoning him like that? If they both survive, will Ed want to work with him anymore? It's a terrible prospect, not being on Team One, but Spike will accept it if that's what Ed decides, for in some ways it's exactly what he deserves. 

Director Lazlo steps out, along with Sam as his ‘bodyguard,’ and they listen to him on the laptop. The three are hushed, eyes on Lazlo but ears on the sound of his aloof greeting.

“I’m impressed with your set up. Secluded, private. Away from cameras and far from any inner city.”

The pilot spreads his arms in a grand gesture. “We’ve been in business for five years and so far this place is our best kept secret.”

“Can I be sure I’m getting my investment?”

Dean’s jaw flexes to hear Ed so callously talked about, however fake. Spike reaches out with an arm across the back of his seat. Not too close, but close enough for Dean to feel the heat of his presence.

In response to Lazlo’s question, the pilot waves a hand towards the plane. The door opens and stairs are lowered.

“_I see him._” Jules’ voice echoes on speaker phone. “_Ed’s on a stretcher inside.”_

Neither of the Parkers are breathing and if they are, Spike can’t detect it.

“Your wire transfer went through,” says the pilot. “Congratulations, sir. We offer our clientele full discretion. Across the Pond?”

“That won’t be necessary,” says Lazlo.

The pilot cants his head in mild surprise. “You don’t want him wiped first? Most of our buyers do.”

It’s impossible see Lazlo’s face from this angle, but he must smile for there’s a chuckle in his voice. A faux dark tone. “We have our own…methods…of subduing subjects.”

Everyone, every last one of them—Cho and Holleran in the hidden vehicle, Sam, Jules, and the three in this SUV—exhale a sudden breath of panic.

‘Subjects.’

This single word is it. The colossal slip up that changes their lives in an instant. With that one word, a dead giveaway, the whole situation falls apart.

The pilot stiffens and grabs a radio off his belt. “Start the engines. We’re leaving.”

“No no no no…” Spike’s heart beats too tight against his collar. “Greg—”

All four propellers whir to life, noisy and blowing leaves off the grassy tarmac. After running up the stairs, the pilot shuts the door. The plane creeps forward in a roll that mimes the one in Spike’s stomach.

Lazlo’s posture screams confusion, his gun now drawn, but Sam is running back to the car. He throws open the door. “Spike, can we track the plane?”

Spike doesn’t answer.

He’s already thrown open his own door. Ripped out the cannula and tossed away the pulse ox clip.

There’s no logical thought or planning, none of his usual contingency plans, mentally drafted in his head like when they’re on a bomb call.

Spike is still barefoot, aside from bandages around his feet. His low blood pressure and platelet count mean he’s unsteady and forced to hobble.

None of this, not a moment of hesitation, stops him from _bolting _onto the tarmac. Hands try to grab at him and one almost succeeds but Spike tears out of Sam’s reach.

It’s an absolute whirlwind of movement. Spike isn’t as drunkenly weaving as he should be—determination, single minded, catapults him forward.

“_SPIKE_!”

“Someone stop him!”

“He’s going to get himself killed!”

Spike stumbles not for the airplane door. He doesn’t wave at Jules to shoot out the tires, no tracker in his hand to throw at one of the windows.

Spike runs right in front of the plane.

He plants himself in the eye line of both pilots, who wave their arms and turn red from shouting at him. Someone else is screaming in the background, Greg by the sound of it. A crowd runs towards him, frantic and hollering and white eyed with panic.

And through it all the plane wheels closer. Thirty feet…twenty feet…fifteen feet…

Wind tears through Spike’s—Ed’s—sweater from the propellers. Spike doesn’t even flinch. He stares down this plane containing his friend with a fierce glare.

He cannot lose Ed again. It isn’t even a hope or a need. Staying with Ed, the man’s whose secondary capture is in many ways his fault, is the only option. Spike will settle for nothing less.

If that means he dies, so be it.

That might have been exactly the outcome of Spike’s gut reaction choice in doing something so reckless, a blaze of glory, right in front of his people.

But suddenly Jules does, in fact, shoot out the front tire.

The world erupts into a lightshow of orange sparks.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is one of the headiest, most recherché things Ed has ever experienced: Spike’s pulse, one beautiful thrum of blood in the boy’s veins, pumping against Ed’s calloused index finger with enough strength to topple nations.
> 
> And then, like Adam, Ed feels them pulled apart.

‘Footprints in the sand  
Remind us that we can  
Just wash away.  
Light, it turns to dust,  
Leaves because it must evaporate.’

“Heartbeats” ~ Aron Wright

Ed comes awake from his doze when the engines restart. He’s still tied up, chowder now on a table at his side. The medic is gone and Saul is peering out the side window. A sling is wrapped around his arm and shoulder, bandages already starting to stain red.

“What happened?” he asks.

The Caucasian pilot runs up the steps. “It’s a set up! They’re feds!”

“Go!” Saul shoves him into the co-pilot’s chair. He yells at both pilots. “Hurry! _Go_!”

Out the windows, Ed watches in confusion as a man he doesn’t recognize, in a silver suit, stands there gaping at the plane. Was this to be Ed's new buyer? He's a little too CEO for whatever villain Ed expected.

There’s a sudden flurry of cries and expletives from the cockpit.

Because the door has been left open and Ed’s bed is facing it, he has a perfect view through the front windshield. A man runs right in front of its path, sending everyone’s hearts into their throats, about to be run over.

What is he thinking? It’s a death sentence!

Men run towards him with guns drawn. Something about the kamikaze sight is familiar, even at this distance, the black zip up with white embroidered lettering...the man is wearing an SRU sweat. A too-big SRU sweater.

Ed shoots upright to sitting faster than a blink. “Spike!”

It’s like someone hits the fast forward button. Everything happens over top of itself in a blur of split hair decisions and knee jerk actions:

_CRACK!_

The plane lists dangerously to the side. Ed hits the bed rail near his head and his hands, loosened for the previous eating time, flail. Saul is thrown against the bed, rasping a pained sound when his sling hits the rail. 

Ed sees his chance. A gallon of adrenaline splashes over him with such tidal wave force that his heart misses two beats before starting again at double speed.

He grabs the thermos of hot chowder and uncaps it in one go. Still swaying from the crazed motion of the clipped plane, Ed uses it to his advantage and throws it into Saul’s face where it looms over him.

The man _shrieks_, thrown back, so loud Ed winces. Steaming chowder bubbles against his skin and Ed’s hands.

The co-pilot comes running out to check and that’s when Ed realizes. He can’t believe he hasn’t thought of it yet.

_They never tied my feet._

Now, head clear of pain killers and sedatives, Ed feels like he can run a marathon. That one sight of Spike was enough to light a fuse burrowed somewhere deep inside Ed’s chest. 

When the co-pilot comes closer, Ed stops thinking and _acts_, letting years of training take over.

He levers his legs off the gurney and clamps both knees around the man’s neck. It’s not enough to choke him out, but all Ed needs is one good twist of his pelvis and the man’s forehead slams the wall.

He crumples.

Ed has about four seconds to feel triumphant about that victory before he notices Saul’s absence, nowhere in sight, and that the plane has stopped. Smoke is everywhere out the windows, grass on fire in a mounting blaze. It keeps a growing crowd away from the plane, coughing and shouting for fire trucks. Gunshots echo suddenly, quiet compared to the crash from seconds earlier. The crowd flattens to the ground.

Ed, all at once, realizes why he can see this fantasia.

The door is open.

Freedom looms so close—he could just walk off! But he can’t wriggle free of the leather restraints. Ed doesn’t have time to be upset about this.

In fact, when Saul walks Spike up the stairs at gunpoint, Glock in his bad hand, the tech’s feet and bloody fresco face bandaged, grey and shaking, charred from a chorus of sparks and put out fires on his chest…Ed has no strategy at all.

For once in his life, planning fails him.

This doesn’t stop him from heaving himself off the bed, far as he can, and reaching—_reaching, stretching, tearing apart—_for Spike.

The restraints bite into his skin, an instant bleed. Ed doesn’t even feel it. Nothing matters except getting to their boy, bloody, assaulted ten ways to Sunday, bright eyed, but _alive_.

Spike sees him and jumps into motion, looking nothing so much like a kid lost at the mall who’s suddenly spotted a familiar face after hours of wandering. “Ed! I’m so sorry!”

_Sorry? _That’s the last thing Ed expects to hear and it makes his breath catch. He just wants _contact_ right now, the self reassurance that Spike didn’t die like they’d told him.

“Hey!” Saul yanks the tech back with a harsh tug to the back of his sweater. Spike clutches at his red neck where the zipper bit into it. “That’s enough!”

Ed ignores Saul. He’s so close… “Spike, you’re alive!”

The co-pilot, in a horrible fit of timing, rises from the floor in a groggy spill and pins Ed’s feet so he can’t lever all the way up or kick himself free.

Ed fights him anyway, furious at this whole scenario and so relieved, overjoyed, that he's weeping again. His fingers strain just a little further…further…

Spike struggles against the arms around him, Saul’s joined by the medic where he appears from a storage room at the back, and the pilot.

It’s something of a wonder to behold, the fact that it takes _three_ people to subdue Spike and a fourth on Ed to keep them apart. They're rough with the tech, treating him like a sack of potatoes or an animal and it makes Ed feverish with anger. If he wasn't tied down, he knows his second priority_—_after hugging Spike and hiding him away from the world for the next twenty years_—_would be killing these men using just his bare hands. One cuffs Spike across the mouth, sending him to his knees, and it cracks his already split lip. 

Ed goes postal in a blistering cry of rage. “Please! Just let him go!”

“Nice try,” Saul yells, skin bubbled and peeling. His bullet wound has reopened. “Get us out of here, captain!”

The second pilot rushes back and closes the stairs door before disappearing into the cockpit. The plane begins to move again, accelerating with more efficiency than it normally would or should, a jumbled take off borne of necessity and panic. 

_CRACK!_

One of the other tires is shot out and they stabilize at the jilted angle. 

Spike is wheezing, still writhing an arm free to try and grab at Ed’s hand. The other two men drag him past Ed’s gurney and towards the storage compartment, a fight that neither Spike nor Ed is going to win.

“Take it easy.” Ed switches from fiery to comforting when he sees what’s about to happen. It takes effort to keep his voice level, to not give away that he knows this is probably the last time he'll ever get to see Spike. He only has eyes for the tech. “Whatever comes next, Mike, I’m here.”

Like the painting by Spike’s Italian namesake, their fingertips brush against each other.

It is one of the headiest, most recherché things Ed has ever experienced: Spike’s pulse, one beautiful thrum of blood in the boy’s veins, pumping against Ed’s calloused index finger with enough strength to topple nations.

And then, like Adam, Ed feels them pulled apart.

The final thing Ed ever sees of Spike, before the door closes, is his desperate face and eyes filled with profuse longing. As if they’re on a case, bodies pressed in the van. Like when they see each other after a bomb call, when Spike walks out unharmed.

This time there is no hug or hair ruffle. No relieved looks shared or jokes about brushes with death.

Now there is only pain and an ache in Ed’s empty arms.

Ed screams Spike’s name long after the plane has taken off.

* * *

Despite the tornado of motion and barked orders swirling on all sides, Greg doesn’t move, after standing, for a long time. Not in the first minute, not in the third, not in the seventh…

Neither does Sam. It’s not in character for the young sniper, a man of action and clear steps forward, especially after they've just been shot at and are only alive because of Saul's injured, wild aim.

Both of their eyes are on the grass tarmac.

Sam stares at the blood trail of footprints and Greg stares at Sam. He knows what the man is reliving, what he sees on his bad days. Today is the worst day Greg has known in quite some time.

_We had to watch him get taken. _Greg leans over on his knees as reality hits without mercy. _My son got re-abducted with a gun to his head. _

Sam had fired off a few warnings shots but they were useless with that blaze in the way, those inferno flames, and the threat of Saul accidentally shooting Spike while using him as a human shield. They hadn’t risked it. Sam even tried to jump through the fire but the door was closed by that time, the plane already in motion.

“We can’t track it?”

It is Dean, of all people, who has started taking notes and coordinating with the federal agents in their midst. He's trembling. 

“This isn’t a commercial airport, Mr. Parker,” Lazlo explains. He sounds tired, the kind of tired that isn't physical. “There are no flight plans or control towers.”

Greg’s gaze shifts to the fires being put out by local fighters who’ve just pulled up. Their red engines spray water over where Spike was standing minutes earlier. Streams of washed away blood trickle across the grass.

Even without a front or back left wheel, the plane had done a shaky but efficient take off. Greg had watched his family—and their hopes—soar away into the clouds. He's never felt like such a failure in all his life, and his mind immediately second guesses each micro decision, trying to figure out what he could have done differently to prevent this. It all happened so fast: from the time Spike bolted out of the SUV to now took less than three minutes. 

Jules, finally packed up and off the hangar rooftop, comes running over with her sniper rifle still strapped at her back. Her eyes are massive. “I thought I’d killed him!”

Sam turns at his wife’s voice. His own is quiet by comparison. “You saved his life, Jules, by a five foot margin. That plane would have run him over without a second thought but it swerved when you shot it out.”

Jules exhales a tremulous wheeze and paces away to compose herself. “I can’t believe he did that.”

Greg meets her eye when she loops back around. “I don’t think he saw any other way, Jules. Doesn’t make it right, but Ed would be long gone by now.”

“I’m still going to kill him,” she mutters.

“I’ve been talking to the mechanic—we have him in custody for aiding known human traffickers.” Holleran jogs over, panting. “He squealed, says he loaded them up with enough fuel to cross the Atlantic. Wordy's source was right.”

Greg’s eyes whip to meet Sam’s, then Lazlo’s. The three of them talk over each other. 

“Check major airports—”

“I’ll call military airspace control—”

“Interpol owes me a favour,” Director Lazlo finishes, already dialing. “We should know more within the hour.”

Then, while everyone chatters to their contacts or coordinates with fire fighters, it is just Greg and Sam standing there once again. Sam has his phone out too, some military contact ready to speed dial and a shallow set to his breathing.

But for a minute his eyes glaze…he looks far off into a middle distance Greg would bet he’s not even seeing.

They are silent. Greg squeezes the younger man’s shoulder.

“You know,” says Sam, his tone ringing with some blue, nostalgic note. “When I first met Spike he pointed a gun at me.”

Greg blinks. He hasn’t expected that to be the memory associated with bloody footprints.

“They all did,” Greg finally replies. “The team thought you were a civilian reaching for a weapon in your pocket and reacted accordingly.”

Sam doesn’t grin, doesn’t shine from that poorly hidden humour in his eyes he sometimes gets.

Instead, he looks at Greg with something painfully earnest. Something that almost makes Greg wish he’d glance away, somewhere else, direct that burning pain onto someone who isn’t suffering from it too.

“I had no idea then.” Sam’s voice is a solemn whisper.

Greg matches it. “Idea of what?”

“How much they’d mean to me. How he would end up being my best friend.”

For most people, that’s a glib term to throw around, a moniker of affection and amusement. Not for Sam. Sam grew up in the Braddock military household, taking fire for fellow soldiers and watching them be gunned down right beside him. Being someone’s best friend means being responsible for them, knowing that sacrifice is part of the deal.

That term is a life time promise of loyalty, if the recipient wants it. And Spike has, from the moment Sam offered it.

Greg doesn’t use up empty promises like _“we’ll get them back” _or _“they’ll be okay.”_

What needs to be said, he can’t. He can’t even fathom voicing the truth out loud.

Agent Cho runs up at that moment and says it for him. “There’s chatter about another bid coming up—if we don’t get a lead soon, we’ll lose them for good! We’re running out of time!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had that scene with Ed and Spike barely touching fingers, like the fresco painting (_The Creation of Adam_), planned since way back in July. I heard "Heartbeats" by Aron Wright for the first time and the whole thing exploded through my head in slow motion. It's one of the 'cornerstone scenes' that built this story.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This man’s speech and manners are much more demure than Saul’s or Rook’s from before. He’s refined. Elegant.
> 
> Looking him in his cold eyes, Spike is still more afraid in this moment than he has been in days.

‘The stars fade, the earth shakes,  
The poison’s on your tongue.  
The lost plans, the last dance,  
oh God, what have you done?’

“Stone Walls” ~ We the Kings

The bright fire is gone, no spark or flaming hutzpah or any kind of fight left in those chocolate eyes.

Six hours ago, Saul threw him in a tiny, three by three storage cabin and locked the door. It’s muted. There’s only one window here, from which to watch clouds go by, the landscape changing to open ocean as far as the eye can squint.

Night falls outside the window but they’re chasing the sun. Heading east.

Spike doesn’t care much about any of this. Absent of any furniture, Spike sits on the floor, in the corner where the window meets the wall, and his dead eyes peer over the lip of his knees at nothing. They’re drawn tightly to his chest, close as he can press them.

Getting re-snatched wasn’t in his plans, not that he had one to begin with.

This spot, however, isn’t chosen at random. It’s illogical, but Spike imagines he can feel Ed’s breath at his back, where the head of his stretcher is on the other side of the wall. If it wasn’t there, Spike would be able to tip his head back and have it touch Ed’s gurney.

True to form in this series of tragic attempts—Spike’s momentary pride at having grabbed Saul’s ancient cellphone out of his pocket, during the scuffle, turned out to be wasted.

The cellphone isn’t getting any reception this far out. The only thing it’s good for is marking the passing of time.

Spike isn’t trying to dial Greg’s number anymore even if he could send a message. There’s nothing to tell, no markers to indicate where they are. They could be near the Bay of Fundy or heading to the Gulf by now.

His body wants fervently to shiver but Spike doesn’t, much. He’s ceased caring. Beyond concern for what happens to himself.

His stitches have reopened, though they clotted hours ago. Little puddle stains of blood ring his feet on the carpet and scarlet tints his chin from a new cut inside his mouth.

Spike does the math in his head, realizing he’s overdue for another round of antibiotics and dose of pure oxygen to help the still-healing lungs. He probably won’t survive the poison without them.

_I want to go home. I want…I want…_

Spike lifts his hand. Hesitates, feeling weirdly timid and embarrassed.

Working up his nerve, he knocks on the wall in Morse Code. Ed’s name.

There’s a toxic pause, one that has Spike’s teeth smarting from how clenched they are. Then—

_Thump._

Ed can’t use his hands, so Spike guesses this sound is his head replying to the tacit message.

_I’m alive_, it says. _You’re not alone._

Ed is still alive and even though Spike knows he’ll probably never see the man again, it’s enough for now. He didn’t leave Ed behind after all or abandon him. Not this time, not ever again. If nothing else came of this awful development, he made things right—he didn’t let Ed go it alone.

Spike closes his eyes.

Everything in him fights it, steels himself against such a banal action, disgusted with the very notion of doing it—

But after only ten minutes or so, Spike drifts off to the buzzing lull of the engines.

He hasn’t truly slept, not counting anesthetic for surgery or the cat nap after their solarium visit, since huddling up with Ed on the forest floor.

Spike sleeps long and deeply, his abused body fighting remnants of the anthrax. He doesn’t dream, not at first, lost in the dead sleep of the beleaguered. Towards the end, feverish images plague his mind in twitches and faint moans. Visions of Ed getting shot or suffocating under all the leaves, gurgling for air.

Sleep holds him so securely under, in fact, that Spike doesn’t even wake when night changes to day, nor when they hit the tarmac. 

Then a familiar voice starts yelling. There are a lot of profanities thrown in but the tone isn’t just angry; it’s urgent.

Spike jerks awake.

So far he hasn’t been able to hear a peep from the other side of the door, the main cabin, because of the engines and how sound proof it is. So the fact that he _can_ is his first tip off.

That voice isn’t coming from the cabin.

Spike swivels on his numb seat bones to peer out the window. He’s groggy and dizzy with sleep, breathing more laboured than before. His mouth tastes funny and he can tell, even before he glances at the cellphone, that he slept for a substantial stretch, certainly more than eight hours.

Still, it doesn’t compute when he sees the inside of a private hangar. This isn’t exactly alarming, of course. Planes have to land somewhere.

But…but all the signs on the wall and the TV screens in a back business room are in…they’re…

_French._

Spike blinks. Wonders if he’s still dreaming. He checks again, for French in itself is not a strange thing in his life, having grown up in Canada with its bilingual signs and cereal boxes.

But this isn’t Acadian or Montreal French. And the TV is playing a news station he doesn’t recognize.

Spike processes all of this in a blink, attention quickly diverted to a tiff happening on the hangar floor. Three men wrestle with a shiny, bald headed figure in thick restraints and ankle cuffs.

“Ed!” Spike pounds on the window. They’re taking him away! “Ed! I’m here—_Ed_!”

_Not again. Please not again!_

Spike siphons artificial tasting air into his inflamed lungs, fist hammering over and over again. Ed doesn’t hear him and Spike turns steadily crimson.

“Ed, please…” Spike coughs. Now the shakes come. “I can’t lose you. Please turn around. Please see me.”

But he doesn’t.

Spike fumbles for the phone hidden under his shirt. There are only two bars of reception but Saul, distracted with Ed, thankfully hasn’t noticed its absence yet.

Spike’s digits are cold from the suddenly reduced cabin pressure and long flight. He types the number wrong twice before it finally works. The call goes through.

He stares at the screen to be sure—the call is _going through_!

“_The number you have dialed_,” says an automated, female voice, _“is a long distance call. Additional charges may be added. Do you accept these charges?_”

Spike nearly laughs. “Yes...yes!”

“_One moment, please._”

“Ah,” says a new voice. “I see you survived the trip. We didn’t expect that.”

Spike whirls around and tucks the phone under his thigh in one go. The man who stands at the door of his ‘cell’ is not the human trafficker Spike expects. No guns or leather or ugly gang tattoos. In fact, he looks more like your stylish, Muslim grandfather than an international criminal.

The man, late fifties, is dressed in a long white garment and a black and white keffiyeh. This isn’t a novel sight, having grown up in urban Toronto with its many cultures and clothes, but the pure gold band around it is, along with an engraved symbol at its crown.

_Status_, the head piece broadcasts. _Power._

He’s polished, clean, nails more manicured than Jules’ ever are. A dazzle of rings sits across the stage of his fingers. He smiles calmly at his hostage on the floor, eyes a glittering, light brown and beard neatly trimmed.

Spike still shies away from the man, pressing himself into the corner.

The man doesn’t seem to mind, still with that serene expression. “When I heard how much a feisty Canadian gave my men trouble, well, I had to see for myself. You even shot Saul, for which I am highly impressed.”

An accent is faint but present, like he was educated somewhere else.

“Where…” Spike swallows dried blood. “Where are you taking my friend?”

The man tilts his head in thought. “To a secret medical facility, for now. He needs to be recovered from that concussion before we can sell him or wipe him. We already have buyers lining up.”

A shiver again assaults Spike when he hears the nonchalant word. Wiped. Erased.

He considers rushing at the man, jumping to his feet and knocking him out with a quick blow…but he recognizes the futility of it, if he could even get to his feet in the first place without buckling. The entire hangar is surrounded by guns, people who work for this man. He wouldn’t make it three feet out the door.

“You should know my government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” says Spike, even though he knows that this man probably isn’t one.

Sure enough, the man’s smile grows, genuinely delighted to hear Spike’s words. His folded hands part so he can gesture to himself.

“Do I look like a terrorist, my good man?”

That question certainly feels like a trap so Spike doesn’t answer.

“Officer,” says the sheikh, “I’m not even a practicing Muslim. But do you know what altar I do bow to?”

This man’s speech and manners are much more demure than Saul’s or Rook’s from before. He’s refined. Elegant.

Looking him in his cold eyes, Spike is still more afraid in this moment than he has been in days. There’s something viperous in the air, a razor cloud of brutality and greed. It makes hairs on Spike’s arms stand straight up.

“Little Roman,” says the man, and Spike’s stomach bottoms out. “I am not doing this for religion or ideology—I am doing this for profit, plain and simple. Exorbitant profits, at that. Of course, sometimes we _sell_ to terrorists. But that’s none of my concern.”

“It’s not possible,” Spike insists, deciding to ignore for now the fact that this man knows and taunts his ethnicity, the possibility of how much information he might have. “You can’t just brainwash someone like in the movies.”

This time when the man smiles, it has no humour or warmth at all.

His voice is dulcet, sweet and soft. “Have you ever heard of a desensitization chamber?”

Spike pales. His milky skin is almost translucent with fear, and he feels suddenly very small. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” The man crowds closer, bending so he blocks the overhead light. “You see, they all come in just like you, with the same fire—fighting, outraged. Intelligent men with training for scenarios like this. And they always lose it, little by little, just like you will too. Soon you will not even remember your own name.”

Spike glances out the window. He can’t hear a thing from the phone under his leg and for now that’s a blessing. Even if the call dropped, which is very likely at this great distance, Spike isn’t sure he’d mind. He doesn’t want to be heard this exposed, at someone’s mercy.

“You were a first, you know.”

The word catches Spike’s attention. “First what?”

“We made a mistake,” the Arab explains. “Not only were you the first Canadians, you were also the first SWAT, non federal agents, that we grabbed.”

A flicker of something defiant appears, just for a breath, in Spike’s eyes. “Should I feel honoured?”

“We did it because of upped demand for close combat skills, which you have,” the man speaks over him. “But none of that was the big failure on our part. We’ll know better next time.”

Spike opens his mouth to ask what this man is droning on about when he kneels. It’s a slow action, meant to force his knees close into Spike’s space. Spike shrinks to the side, to get away. 

And suddenly, the latent ire in the man’s face, Saul’s brutal manhandling of him, it all makes sense.

Wonderment washes over Spike like christening day. “We were the first set of partners you ever took. And it cost you, because it didn’t cow us.”

The man’s face is still mild, but there’s the beginning of a wrinkle there—displeasure.

“We’re close to each other.” Spike knows the truth of it like he knows gravity. “Every other agent caved, didn’t put up such a fuss, because they were _alone. _But then you abducted us, not only colleagues but friends. We had someone to fight for.”

Something dangerous swells inside the dark eyes fixed on Spike. “A mistake we shall not repeat.”

“It won’t work,” declares Spike, less sure of this one. He fidgets under the intense gaze. “No amount of torture will make us fight for your buyers.”

The smile is back but Spike hates it afresh. “I don’t have to lay a finger on you, thrall. In fact, with that poison in your system, I’d prefer not to.”

Spike spits at his sandaled feet.

The man laughs. He stands in a graceful rise. “You have a passion inside you, so unlike the other men whimpering for their families.”

A pressure builds in Spike’s chest. Not the promised ache of tears, but the start of a snarl with enough menace that it would make Ed proud.

The sheikh just laughs again at his vicious glower. “Come. We are changing planes so as not to be followed. If you live and the poison doesn’t kill you first, I might just get a nice bonus off of you.”

Rolling that little tidbit around, Spike stands too, shaky, phone hidden up his sleeve. “What about this plane?”

“It will be taking your friend to his new owner.”

Another, more hot headed, officer might have lunged at the man then. At such a cavalier word used in the same sentence as such a treasured friend. Spike, however, feels a bolt of inspiration shoot through him.

The man pulls out a gun from his robe and nudges it at Spike. It’s sleek, a newer, unfamiliar model Spike doesn’t know. Probably a recreation of an old pistol, longer and thicker than his usual Glock.

“Alright,” says Spike, stepping through the door. “But can I please use the washroom first?”

The sheikh, behind him, is quiet. “I’ll be right outside the door and my men are on the ground. There is nowhere to run.”

Spike twists his head and looks the man right in the eye. “I won’t. I’m in no condition to be moving much at all.”

The evidence of this is the new spots of blood that trail after his footsteps and the way he has to hold the wall for support.

Once the tiny airplane bathroom door is shut and Spike is alone, he whips out the cellphone.

The call has dropped, of course. He has no idea how long it even stayed on the line.

He really does use the toilet and then, running the faucet to wash his hands and create noise, he dials Greg’s number again.

A fist pounds on the door. “Time to move!”

“I’m coming!” Spike listens frantically to the three tone beeping, the call trying to connect once he accepts the charges. “Just feeling light headed.”

That’s not totally a lie. Spike’s stomach is in knots again and he can tell his lungs are working too hard for what little oxygen they’re getting. It’s still worlds better than before.

“I’m coming in!”

Just as a key twists in the lock, Spike hides the phone in the cupboard below the sink. He closes the door, resigning himself to leaving it behind—

“_Spike? Is…you…talk?_”

The voice is crackling with the distance and archaic phone design. It still makes Spike freeze.

“Hurry up.” Saul wrestles the door open, one handed. His neck tattoo strains with anger. “Or don’t. I’d love nothing more than an excuse to put a payback bullet in you. Don’t think you’re not expendable here.”

“How can I forget?” Spike fires back.

Rough fingers clamp around Spike’s arm and jerk him out of the bathroom. The sheikh, with his escort of six heavily armed men and assault rifles, wait for him on the hangar floor. Saul shoves him at every step. Spike doesn’t feel any of it.

A blizzard of numb leeches across his body, starting at his extremities and suctioning inwards until there’s nothing left inside Spike but a frail hope, one that’s not even for himself.

Walking away from the phone—and Greg’s voice—is one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to bring the archaic cellphone back! I love the idea of poor technology making the situation even more dire.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What?” Dean’s eyes are wide. Greg relates to the feeling, for he doesn’t have it in himself to handle any more disappointment or bad news. “What is it?”
> 
> Lazlo has one hand over Greg’s cellphone, the one he left on the table inside. “Scarlatti is calling from a burner!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AJR is such a great, creative band. If you want even more feelios, try out "Call My Dad" and "Turning Out." All aboard the feels train.

‘It’s cold out there, you’re standing there,  
You’re trying to face your greatest fear.  
You’re shivering, you’re trembling,  
It’s warm in here so come back in.’

“Don’t Throw Out My Legos” ~ AJR

The motel is nice, not the roadside, pay in cash type of seedy place Greg is used to associating with drug busts and domestic calls. It’s got fibre op, free coffee, shower jets, and even a little hot tub off the main office.

None of this is enough to keep the gloomy, quiet huddle at ease. Nor do they sleep much, except for Sam, who’s conked out thanks to being awake for over fifty one hours, while his wife keeps watch and chats with Wordy on a video call.

Lazlo and Hartford have camped out at their floor’s common area table, labouring over profiles and Interpol notices. Cho is passed out on the couch beside him, Holleran still clacking away at the bidding site while chugging orange soda as fast as Greg can pass them.

More than once, he laments how slow the hacking process is without Spike. Usually said around curses about viruses and bouncing IP addresses. And more soda slurping.

Dean is…

Greg pauses in doing his rounds, the frustrated circuit he’s been at all night. Where is Dean?

He checks the common area again but no sign of the boy. Creeping into the master suite, all he sees is Sam sprawled on his side, facing Jules, who’s still sitting up, laptop on her knees. She whispers to Wordy and, by the sounds of it, Sadie.

Greg pokes his head in. “Is Dean with you?”

Jules glances up, the screen light throwing her tear tracks in bright lines. She frowns, eyes foggy with concern. “Actually, I haven’t seen him for a while, boss.”

“Okay…thanks. Get some sleep.”

Jules ignores that one, waving to her daughter and flipping the laptop around so Greg can do the same, making a funny face that has Sadie giggling.

After silently shutting the door, Greg’s footsteps pick up speed, in harmony with the fox trot beating of his heart. Dean, after there was nothing left for him to do or notes to take, sort of…deflated. Like the tree of purpose propping him up had suddenly been chopped down.

It takes almost ten minutes of wandering before Greg thinks to look _outside_.

The midnight witching hour has brought with it a crisp, almost-October temperature drop. It’s not as cold here as Toronto, but Greg can still see his breath against the indigo sky, white puffs to match the few scraggly clouds. He takes a moment to zip his coat up all the way.

Frost crystals have gathered on the deck’s railing, creating a haze over the metal of Greg’s cane when he steps out the sliding door. Their room is on the second floor, with a view facing the woods at the back of the property instead of the road. It’s a small but needed luxury after all the carnage they’ve been dumped with to process, in such a short time.

There’s only one bench.

Dean isn’t wearing a coat at all, so Greg shuffles back inside and comes out with it. Just like that afternoon in the SRU lobby, Greg doesn’t rush in to his son’s space, choosing instead to pad closer with loud, slow steps. Letting Dean hear him first and react how he wants.

Close up, tear tracks shine on his cheeks too. They’ve frozen about halfway down, caked to the down-turned dimples on either side of his lips. Staccato pants create thin streams of white air, mixed with the long and hot sighs of tired grief, postlude to a long weeping fit.

At his blue lips and the little trembles, jittering down his arms and clattering his teeth, a saber tip pierces Greg’s chest. Something searing, melted, soft, and steely all at the same time—tenderness weaponized into action and propelling Greg’s steps the last few feet.

Dean doesn’t look at his father when he sits down at his side. Not even when Greg threads one of his arms through the coat, then the other one, like Dean is a little boy again. Rather than removing his hands, Greg holds him close, with a brisk rub to warm up the frozen skin.

A niggling, insistent part of Greg’s mind wants to berate Dean for the lack of self care, sitting out here on a freezing cold night in nothing but a cotton T-shirt, for isolating himself when he’s hurting.

_Like father, like son._

Greg hasn’t a leg to stand on in that department, so he says nothing.

Together, they watch the wind whistle across pine tree needles, hissing through bulrushes on either side of a small pond out in the forest. Despite the zero temperature, a few brave crickets still sing away. The milky white toenail of a waning moon bathes everything in a muted sapphire glow. It's...still. Alive and still, all at once. Kind of like Dean.

“I’m pretty useless, huh?”

Greg glances sharply at his son.

“I don’t have any of the others’ intelligence or analyst skills,” Dean goes on. “I can’t shoot like Jules. No medical training that could have actually helped Spike.”

Greg has seen his son through a lot of emotions, even in the measly years they’ve had since Dean came back into his life. Joy, giddiness, frustration, impudence, anger, contentment, dismay…

But sorrow, sorrow is something else. Not flash-in-the-pan devastation at something upsetting happening—this is resigned, calm, and ghastly. Old fashioned, gut wringing sorrow that no young man should ever have to experience.

Sadness is too puerile a word for the shaking in Dean’s fingers and the unblinking way he stares out into the night. It's trance-like, as if he's aged thirty years in the hour sitting out on this bench.

“All that Academy training.” Dean’s voice pitches higher with the staved off, second wind breakdown. “And none of it did any good in saving my brother. I’m _useless._”

“Dean.” Greg cups his son’s icy cheek. “You’re the reason border patrol was distracted enough for Jules to get through. _You _found Spike and snapped the photo of Saul! You’re the only reason we had a break in the case at all. That doesn’t sound useless to me.”

Dean’s lips wobble, eyes filling again. “I had to tell him what happened.”

“Tell who?”

“Clark.” With a ricocheted inhale, Dean wipes at his eyes. He gestures with the cellphone still grasped in his fist. “I had to call my best friend and tell him that we lost his dad. _Again_. He…he was…”

Dean has to stop and Greg presses their heads together, trying to ease some of the too-heavy anguish in his boy’s spirit.

“I could barely understand him over his sobbing,” Dean finishes in a whisper. “It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever had to do, Dad.”

Greg, master negotiator and silver tongue for over half his life, has absolutely no words for that. So, like Job’s friends, he just sits in silence and rubs Dean’s shoulder for a long, long while.

“We lost him.” Dean licks the tears that land on his mouth. “We lost Ed and Spike, maybe for good.”

“Yeah.” Greg tempers down his own trembling, the caustic fear over what state they’ll find both men in, if he’ll have to greet a body bag. He hasn't allowed himself to fully process what happened. “But we’re not just going to give up, you understand me?”

Dean sniffs, rubbing his nose in such a messy, childlike way that it, contrasted against the mature eyes, makes Greg smile a little.

“That was really scary,” says Dean, muffled by his now wet coat sleeve.

Greg keeps his voice breath-soft, bathing in the affection he has for this beautiful, ruffled boy. “What was scary? The plane swerving and the fire?”

Dean shakes his head. “That too, I guess. But his feet…his feet were splitting open in real time, Dad. Right there. Spike was dying from the inside out but he ran anyway.”

With a beat of assessment, Greg eyes his son, trying to figure out why this, of all things he’s witnessed and been victim of, would bother him. Dean’s been _shot at_, for heaven’s sake! Yet Spike’s feet are what leaving him shaking in Greg’s arms.

Heavy footfalls and a new, tired voice join their huddle. They glance up. “That’s what loyalty does to a person, Mr. Parker.”

The tone breaks a little, sounding exactly the way Hartford looks. Grey, like a shirt left too long in the wash and fraying at the edges.

"He reminded me of Saul, you know. And I envied that you could have your boy but I couldn't have mine." Hartford holds his breath for a moment, creating a gap in the white steam of his breath. "Spike has the same drive, the same creativity...and I thought...if you were as desperate as me—maybe you'd succeed where I failed."

Dean sighs. "But we didn't."

Son, father, and mentor all stare at each other, eyes hooded and far too knowing. Greg still hasn’t quite found it in himself to forgive Hartford, not totally, but he understands that pained and grim look because he’s wearing it right now.

“If I could take back what I did,” says Hartford, “I would. It was wrong to lie to you, to manipulate the evidence so you’d use your resources and go after my protégé for me, even at the risk of your own lives.”

Greg thumbs absently at Dean’s frigid tendrils of hair. “Apology accepted. You meant well, and we all want the same thing here. I appreciate you asking to help with the search, before you’re sent away.”

Hartford nods. “I know how it feels, Sergeant, losing him. Mentor-to-mentor, we’re on the same page.”

Greg looks Hartford dead in the eye, his own rock hard. The threads in his chest light up. “Spike isn’t my protégé—he’s my _son_. And Ed, who _is_ Spike’s mentor, happens to be my closest friend. Don’t pretend to fathom how deep the pain of their losses go in this family, especially you, a man without one of your own.”

Hartford is stunned speechless, gaping at Greg and though it was a little harsh, Greg doesn’t take back a word of what he said. There’s an odd satisfaction to the sudden understanding in Hartford’s eyes, the pain. They nod at each other. 

Dean glances between them, equally surprised. “Do you think Spike’s feeling okay, wherever he is? He never got to finish that soup.”

The naivety of the question is a nuclear, rolling wave that blasts straight into Greg’s diaphragm and fries the air out of it. Hartford wears it on his face too, shattered and searching for a way to answer the boy.

Both men get wet eyed, swallowing back shallow breathing, while Greg gently feathers a hand on the back of Dean’s neck.

“Let’s not worry about that right now, okay?”

They might have had that second breakdown after all, completely unsteady, except just then Lazlo saves them from it. He runs toward them at breakneck speed.

“What?” Dean’s eyes are wide. Greg relates to the feeling, for he doesn’t have it in himself to handle any more disappointment or bad news. “What is it?”

Lazlo has one hand over Greg’s cellphone, the one he left on the table inside. “Scarlatti is calling from a burner!”

Dean is shaking this time from excitement, and he jumps to his feet to crowd as close as he can to Lazlo and the phone while still being socially appropriate. And that only just.

“Spike…” he whispers, knowing he can’t raise his voice and give his brother’s trick away. “We’re here. I’m here, Spike!”

He’s crying again, but this time he laughs through it, breathless. His tears shine in the night. 

“I’ve placed the call to copy into our UN tech forensic experts,” says Lazlo in a low, burning murmur. His other hand texts one handed to a European contact. “They’ve already confirmed voice recognition on the man talking to Scarlatti. I don't know if it will be admissible in court, they ran the test four times and it's definitely him, but it doesn't matter now anyway. He's a wanted suspect for war crimes at best. At worst...”

Greg stands too. “Who is it?”

Lazlo holds out a receipt, a name scribbled on the back.

Hartford’s jaw drops for a second time when he reads it. “This is no time for joking and quite frankly it’s disrespectful.”

“I’m serious.” Lazlo shakes from his own brand of exhilaration. “It’s him. He’s at the center of this whole trafficking scheme and the recent uptick in attacks. In fact, we think he's the one who bribed the FBI agents to let this case go. We’re already working on an arrest warrant.”

“_Sheikh Almasi_?” Greg’s brows shoot up. “The huge oil and electronics tycoon? He was just on the news recently, honoured with a humanitarian award.”

Lazlo gives a sharp nod, listening hard. Jules and Holleran join them, rigid with cautious, doubtful hope.

She asks a more urgent question. “Spike, how does he sound?”

Lazlo looks away, mouth set in a white line, and refuses to answer. Greg’s stomach falls into his shoes.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only when the door opens for one final time, and a blanket of oven hot air _bursts_ inside the cabin, does Spike understand.
> 
> And to his horror, the blindfold is taken off. He can see all the mercenaries’ faces.
> 
> It seals the deal from theory into reality—death will be a mercy.

‘Like the butterfly effect,  
It was only just a speck  
That made into a broken-hearted mess.  
Like the butterfly effect—  
It’s so easy to regret.’

“Butterfly Effect” ~ Before You Exit

They _dive_ around another bend in traffic, going at illegal speeds that would make Spike proud. They’ve nearly been T-boned five times on this chase alone. A slew of cop cars with lights on pose as their escort to the airport, and even they are having trouble keeping up.

“Nothing yet?” Sam asks, for the millionth time, though he’s the one driving like a maniac and he’s supposed to be paying attention. He’s not bleary eyed anymore, wide awake. “Jules?”

“We’re working on it, honey.”

“But—”

“We’ll get it, Braddock.”

At the use of his, their, last name, Sam shuts up.

Greg’s finger hovers over the redial button on his phone, which is currently plugged into the laptop on Jules’ knees. He’s still trembling faintly from the brief, fuzzy sound of Spike’s voice talking to an unfamiliar man. They hadn’t heard much, even when replaying the recorded call.

It was still enough to make Greg’s skin crawl.

Dean pokes his head between the seats. “We can’t call back, Dad. What if the ringtone alerts his captors?”

“You’re right.” Greg rubs a hand down his face. “I know. I just…”

Suddenly the phone rings for him, making everyone jump.

Lazlo, one hand still holding a cellphone to his ear, where a British tech agent is talking him through the process, circles his free index in the universal signal for tracing a call. “We’ve almost pinned a location, but it must be an older phone with little in the way of GPS—we’d be faster with him on the line. Accept it.”

Greg does so before he even finishes speaking. “Spike? Is that you? Is it safe to talk?”

There’s no reply, except for the distant, tinny sound of Spike’s voice and someone else. Saul maybe? It’s not the accented voice from before. The one who had taunted and threatened and demeaned Spike with every word, who had made Greg's hands itch to close around Almasi's throat. 

Sam pulls up to the airport and swivels in his seat. “Where is he, Jules?”

“We got it!” Jules taps the screen with her nail. “The call came from France! I can’t narrow it down any more than that.”

“_France_?” Dean sounds a touch panicked. “They flew him all the way to France? Why?”

“The phone’s stopped moving,” says Jules. “Though I doubt it’s his final destination.”

Lazlo snaps his fingers to get their attention. “It’s not. My Interpol contacts flagged a rented hangar—rented in a hurry—in Reims just before a plane took off from the abandoned runway there.”

Greg grips the overhead handle hard enough that it bruises. “Are…are you saying that…”

“We _lost_ him?” Dean again reads his mind, his devastated voice ringing in the cramped SUV. “We pinpointed his location only for him to leave! They could be anywhere!”

“Interpol is on it, Mr. Parker.” Though Lazlo sounds just as discouraged. “Along with the Parisian government, the International Criminal Tribunal, and a host of other anti-trafficking organizations. We’ll find him.”

“Are you sure of that? Are our chances good?”

Lazlo doesn’t answer this one. His silence screams louder than any of them can stand.

Finally, Jules sighs and takes Dean’s hand. “No, they’re not.”

Greg looks to Sam beside him. There’s a plea he doesn’t even bother to censor in his eyes, roiling and scorched through the tears.

Sam reads it, loud and clear. He nods sharply. “I’m on it, boss.”

* * *

Seminal memories are a funny thing. One never gets a choice in how they’re formed or what stays in the mind for life.

But they all have one thing in common—

Instant learning. Associations connected or experienced in a lightning strike.

Spike’s earliest memory is the smell of burning hair—his own—when his little toddler hand had reached out to explore the red burner on their run down stove in Italy.

He’d barely lain his hand on it, yet it was still enough to singe hairs on the back of his right wrist. They’ve never really grown back, leaving him with one smooth hand and one with light, feathery hair.

There’s the smell of something burning alright, but this time it’s a cigar.

And rather than the shrieks of his mother, there comes the cheery laughter of Saul and his men. Spike can’t see anything, thanks to a new blindfold over his eyes and hands tied to a support column in the back of the sitting area, near the bar.

Even this, with all its humiliation and fear, is not Spike’s newest seminal memory. Thrown onto the larger private jet, just before they tied the blindfold on—

Spike looked through the window down at night falling over this foreign country, the way it faded away with their ascent. And he knew he would never see any of his family again. That if by some miracle he survives, and he won’t, they’ll never know where to look.

For Spike himself doesn’t know where they are.

The plane has landed several times already, mutters in Arabic and Farsi exchanged through rushed interactions whenever the door opens. The sheikh got off at one of these recent stops.

Now they’re in the air for good, the longest stretch so far. Spike shivers, his body deteriorating. His eyes, if they weren’t veiled and someone were to get a good look at them, are empty. Vacant.

His greatest comfort is knowing Greg and the others will stop at nothing to trace his phone call. Ed will be found and returned safely to his wife and children.

Just as it should be.

Spike would never forgive himself if it were Ed on the floor of this plane, flying away to worlds unknown.

“You still alive over there?” Loud foot falls _thud, thud, thud_ their way over to Spike's corner.

Saul punctuates his words with a puff of smoke in Spike’s face. Spike can smell its waft around a scrunched face. He refuses to give Saul the satisfaction of coughing, even though breathing has become twice as hard in the last hour alone.

“I still don’t think you’re worth all this fuss, but I don’t make the orders. Funny, my cell phone went missing and they found it on the other plane. Sloppy trick.”

Spike’s lips pinch. “Worth a shot. Where are we going?”

“You’ve been harder to sell so we’re keeping you closer to home for now.”

Something occurs to Spike, not for the first time. “You were taken, like the others.”

“Right-o, officer. Grabbed during my very first undercover operation and flown where we’re going, just like you.”

Spike hesitates. “Did they torture you? You don’t seem brainwashed like the others apparently were.”

Saul is the one silent this time. The men are playing a wooden tile game near the cockpit, one Spike doesn’t recognize.

“At first they did.” Saul speaks quiet enough to keep this exchange private. “But being abandoned is an irreversible thing. Human beings aren’t designed to be tossed aside, and to do so…it’s a break you can’t fix.”

The words cut Spike down to the quick of his heart, all that pain bleeding into his chest cavity. He sucks in a quick breath.

_Just like I abandoned Ed._

“The FBI never stopped looking for you,” he says. “Or at least Hartford didn’t.”

There’s a rumble of dark laughter and then Spike yelps at a pain on his neck—the hot end of the cigar. It leaves a blistering disk along his skin that smells horrid in the cramped space. He can't help but cough this time, and it sounds wet.

“Oh yes, he did. Had a memorial service and everything. Let’s just say my Arab friend made me a better offer than a tombstone.”

Sweat slicks along Spike’s back, borne of adrenaline and his body’s fight or flight response. “You’re the only one who worked with him of your own free will.”

“You got it.” Saul shuffles and his voice sounds lower, closer, as if he’s crouched down. “For him it’s money. For me…”

“Revenge.” Spike prays the cigar’s sweet smoke doesn’t come closer. Ulcers ringing his lungs throb, wail, pinch. “Bitterness out of what happened to you. That’s why you hate Ed and I so much, what we represent.”

Saul hums, a bitter, amused sound. “All that talk about brotherhood and no man left behind—it’s a lie, officer. I was thrown away, ‘missing in action,’ for six months before he made me a deal, let alone the twenty hours you’ve been re-taken. No one is coming for you.”

Saul’s words are the dove released after a flood, the final messenger of a nearly extinct people. Spike feels their syllables pummeling inside his veins like a last man standing at the end of a battle no one wins.

“I know,” says Spike, voice hollow and steady.

_It will probably be the last thing I ever know._

After that, there is no more talking.

Even the men at the card table are tense, and when the plane does a smooth landing, it’s so quiet that Spike hears a barely-there hissing. Tap, tap, tapping away, an all encompassing sound.

It takes Spike a minute to realize this particular sound is not man-made.

Only when the door opens for one final time, and a blanket of oven hot air _bursts_ inside the cabin, does Spike understand. He begins to sweat in earnest, an instant reaction on his body’s part, which is not helped by Ed’s fleecy sweater.

And to his horror, the blindfold is taken off. He can see all the mercenaries’ faces.

It seals the deal from theory into reality—death will be a mercy.

“There we are.” Saul’s sneering mug is much worse than the dark. He unties Spike to haul him to his feet, then zip ties his hands in front. “Can’t have you tripping too much and breaking a leg. Then I’d finally get to shoot you.”

Spike says nothing.

The air pressure here feels different, and, stepping out into the blinding sun, there is nothing—absolutely _nothing—_as far as his squinting eyes can see.

Pennsylvania was positively urban compared to this. There are no trees. No buildings. No bodies of water. Aside from a Humvee, their ride, and the tarmac, there is only miles upon miles of…

“You learn to love the sand,” says Saul. “If you live that long.”

Spike has read lots about the desert, has heard all of Sam’s stories about tours in Afghanistan.

But _this_. This isn’t Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s rolling dunes, knee deep powder like in all the old romantic films.

This is hard, cracked earth, coated in a fine sienna mist. The grains of sand are what he heard, swirling around the belly of the plane.

They swirl around Spike too until he’s forced into the back of the armoured hummer, and when he looks down, his sweater is turned grey. In the hummer’s rear view mirror, Spike can only see his hair and he looks like an old man, coated with it.

_How fitting._ It’s appropriate, somehow, since all of his life, its shortened wick, is to be burned up within the month. By that timeline, he’s positively elderly. _I’m sorry, Greg._

That's who he feels he's letting down the most, with this defeatist thinking. Now that Spike and Greg are finally close, building that relationship through blood, sweat, and grief, he's letting it go. Guilt simmers underneath the teardrop shape of Spike’s bottom ribs. His only hope is that he goes down with dignity and that they find Ed alive. Anything else that happens to him doesn't matter, so long as his family is safe.

The heat is a dry one, but it still feels more roasting than Mama’s stove top. Spike has no idea which desert this is, how equatorial or how close to the ocean.

They drive for hours and hours, long enough for night to fall. He dozes with his eyes open before resting his chin on his chest. Saul makes several calls throughout the day, until finally he gets through to his superior.

“We’ve landed and are on our way…are you sure you want to start him right away? We usually let them recuperate…”

A pause.

“Yes, sir. Glad you’ve found a buyer so soon.” Saul chuckles into the shiny new burner cell at his ear. “Investment for an upcoming attack. Understood, sheikh. I’ll have the chamber ready soon.”

* * *

Manhunts or missing person cases are not in and of themselves a novel thing for Europe.

If one could have eyes in many places at once, regardless of time zones, they would see UN and state offices lit up at night in London, Paris, Geneva, Rome, and Bucharest.

Toronto and Washington federal buildings bustle with mad dash conference meetings and satellite telemetry and suspect profiles. Phone lines at the FBI headquarters are all lit up, blinking red.

For this particular missing persons case is not the usual fare. It seems a lot of hassle for two Canadians, not even federal agents at that.

It is the voice on the other end of his static filled cellphone call that has spurred everything. A Middle Eastern voice.

A well known voice. Sheikh Almasi’s name alone sets off alarm bells around the world.

That, and it’s the first time since the Vietnam War that a human brainwashing case has been confirmed. A whole _host _of cases. In reopening the abduction ring case, the truth of it all settles like noxious dust, that these men fired on their own friends because they'd lost all sense of self completely against their will. It’s a domino effect across the North American Eastern seaboard and half of Europe. There are no leads, but that doesn’t stop them from trying.

Almasi has virtually dropped off the map, nowhere to be found. Those with suspected ties to buying human assets have only just started to sing—to rat out the truth of what’s been happening for the past seven months.

The market value of a trained human being, sold only to be used up like a tissue…the thought alone sends half the world’s intelligence community into a furious whirlwind. There’s no stopping it now.

Agents are called. Specialists consulted. Even the US President, waking for the day, gets a tiny line at the bottom about it on his daily memos.

The Canadian Prime Minister never went to bed at all.

“Parker?” asks an accented voice. “Is that his name?”

The young man’s supervisor, also standing around the coffee machine with a dozen other Geneva and Interpol agents, nods. “He’s been calling every half hour on the dot for the last three hours.”

“I heard he even called the AG’s office in Washington!” says one woman, gesturing with her coffee mug. “I have no idea how he got that number.”

The young man’s brow quirks. “Probably the same way he got _our _number—his new FBI buddy, Lazlo. The FBI is in serious trouble, man.”

“Trouble?” the woman frowns.

Their supervisor sighs. “There’s officially a White House investigation open into who cooperated with Almasi by covering up all these disappearances at the Bureau and who issued a kill order hit on the Canadian couple. Talk about a scandal.”

“Wow!”

“Crazy, right?”

“I just can’t believe it.” The young man blinks fast. “Kidnapping trained agents and then selling them to warring countries it’s…it sounds like something out of a science fiction.”

“I hear Hartford stole government documents, lied about how much he knew, and faked calling in a tip.”

The man scowls. “I never liked Hartford, when we worked together on that money laundering case a few years back.”

“Ha!” The woman laughs. “That’s nothing—I heard the SWAT lady gave one border guy a concussion! Using a pit maneuver!”

Their supervisor offers a grim smile. “Better that than the one who ran in front of a moving airplane. Even when it caught on fire.”

“Wait, _what_—”

Suddenly, an agent runs into the break room and catches herself on the door frame. She’s rosy, clutching a laptop. “We just got a tip!”

The supervisor does a double take. “Where? _How_? We haven’t had intel for hours.”

“It’s a long story—an incredible one at that.” She hands him a dossier. “The better question is, how fast can we get a satellite on these coordinates to scout the area?”

The man snaps his finger at an aid standing nearby. “Right now. General Marks owes me a favour.”

Almasi’s voice is the cell call heard around the world, a dry match to flames. The bonfire spreads faster than anyone anticipates or can keep up with. For they would never have had evidence to pursue him without that auditory proof.

Agencies come to know one man’s voice when he calls for updates, his tenacity and insistence, no matter what station of person he’s talking to—he even snaps at a Pentagon general without a hint of remorse—

At the center of it all, holding that lit match, is Greg Parker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're not supposed to be sympathetic toward your villains, and Saul's choices are definitely appalling, but this scene made me pity him more than I expected. His abandonment just got me in the feels.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the men, huge and teeth rotted, has had quite enough of this pesky officer and his refusal to give up.
> 
> He swears, points the rifle straight at Spike’s knee cap, and cocks the hammer—  
  
_BAM!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I have lyrics below as usual, the real song that inspired this cornerstone scene is “Variation 15” by Benjamin Wallfisch, and if you can read the chapter while listening to it, I highly recommend doing so! It's the _exact_ emotional tone I was trying to capture.

‘You taught me the courage of stars before you left.  
How light carries on endlessly, even after death.  
With shortness of breath, you explained the infinite.  
How rare and beautiful it is to even exist.’

“Saturn” ~ Sleeping At Last

To say that he is introverted is not quite true. He loves people, very much, loves helping them and watching them grow and seeing what they’re capable of. But until this latest hellscape of an experience, this abduction and concussion, he never realized what a luxury alone time is.

Being unconscious does not count.

Ed is still vibrating with rage, fury, _vengeance_, even now, four hours after he was unceremoniously dragged off the plane and shoved into a sterile recovery room in the secret underground base of this hangar. He can still feel their rough hands, the barks in Arabic and a bruising grip along the nape of his neck. Ed’s throat still hurts from shrieking Spike’s name.

It should feel disorienting. He should be scared at having woken up on what is clearly not even his home continent. He should feel brimming with ire—and he is—at the plane containing Spike flying away.

_They took him away. _Ed thinks of Spike’s devastated face and his stomach curdles. The very thought of never seeing him again brings more tears to his eyes. 

Right now, however, his most dominant emotion is relief. He’s been left alone, mostly thanks to a strange, urgent call in French over the PA system. Ed, though he’s back on a brand new gurney, is only restrained by a leather cuff around his right wrist, the left having been kept free this time for two IV lines.

And he’s alone.

He has to admit, the painkillers and anti-inflammatories in the drip are doing their job just nicely. Perhaps a little _too _well, in fact, for the world is soft and fuzzy and not at all helpful if he’s going to escape.

Best of all?

Ed can feel the apple peeling knife still down his right side boot. They stripped him of everything, from his belt to the backpack, but they didn’t think to check his feet.

It takes some clever acrobatics, for the leather cuff has virtually zero leash room, but Ed balls himself up tight enough for his left hand to reach underneath his knees and down the side of his combat boot.

At first he panics—is he imagining the dull knife? Is it gone?—and then something cold and metal skims his fingertips.

_Ah ha!_

Ed yanks it out by the blade, not caring that it’s slicing his palm a little. Just a few beads of blood. Heart rate ticking upwards in speed, Ed doesn’t waste a second in sliding the knife underneath the leather restraint.

Flipping the handle into his hand, Ed saws back and forth, eyes on the closed door for any unwanted visitors. He knows he has precious few minutes before his alone time is cut short.

_Come on, come on…_

It’s not working as fast as he wants, the edge only halfway through the thickness of the cuff.

Footsteps are growing closer.

Ed’s heart leaps. Those are loud footfalls, intentional, intimidating, and in control. They scream power and it only fuels Ed’s frantic motions. He forces himself not to fumble or spasm, even though he isn’t left handed, to keep each hacking cut calm and measured.

At last, a sudden, cool sensation hits the flattened hairs on Ed’s arm. He realizes he’s been sweating against the leather all day and now it’s airing out.

The doorknob turns…

Ed doesn’t even wait for the blade to finish, heaving his arm to the side and snapping what’s left of the restraint. It’s a yanked movement, probably something he wouldn’t be able to do normally if he wasn’t panting with adrenaline.

A tall, suited man, in a bulletproof vest and carrying a Glock, enters at the exact same moment Ed jumps off the gurney.

Ed has built up this moment in his mind from the moment they took Spike away from him. He has rehearsed the steps and knows precisely what countermeasures he needs to neutralize the person in front of him.

The instant his feet hit the floor, however, his body has other plans.

Ed stumbles to one knee, legs shaking and head spinning. Everything is high pitched, like he’s hearing the world through a giant metal tube, so unstable he has to brace a hand on the gurney. The IVs have ripped out of his wrist and he bleeds onto the linoleum.

The man sucks in a startled breath. “Officer Lane—”

Ed hears his name and it’s the last straw. He’s tired of games. He’s tired of being yanked around by taunts and punches and dark allusions about just what they’ll do to him and Spike.

He surges up from his feet and lunges at the man before he finishes taking a full breath. The man ducks the oncoming knife, only for Ed to feint and switch it to his right hand—

Before driving it straight into the man’s shoulder. The vest is reinforced along the top, unlike theirs back home, and it doesn’t go in all the way.

Enraged, Ed snarls. “Let me go or I’ll try that again somewhere less pleasant.”

He moves to retrieve the knife, where it’s sticking out of a foam layer surrounding the Kevlar, when the man holsters his gun and puts up both hands.

“I’m not here to hurt you, officer.”

Dazed, Ed doesn’t relax his defensive stance. “Nice try. Heard that one before.”

“You're safe now, I assure you. I’m not playing mind games.” The man pulls a badge out of his pocket and flips it open. “I’m Interpol agent Colby Adams, here to follow up on a, by now, rather infamous phone call.”

None of this makes any sense to Ed, except for the fact that the man’s hands are empty. He hasn’t tried to attack Ed. And the badge looks as real as his British accent sounds.

Ed straightens a bit, lowers his ready fists. “Phone call?”

“It’s a long story.” Adams chuckles, breathing hard now that he sees Ed isn’t about to stab him in the neck. “Your friend called Greg Parker from an absolutely ancient cellphone here in France and we traced it to your location.”

The tube is ringing, clanked on by insistent hands. Everything is blank for a second, a shock wave so intense that Ed’s whole body resonates.

Then he goes boneless with a pure, unaltered kind of euphoria. It’s not a smile and it’s not a laugh, but it is catharsis, and Ed huffs even as he falls. “Of course he did.”

* * *

When Spike wakes fully, it’s cooler. Sunrise is close, scaring off a strange, fox-like creature Spike’s eye catches darting away into a hole.

They’ve parked at a secret compound, half set into the earth and roofs painted the exact same shade as the desert sand. 

Undetectable from the air.

More rough hands haul him out and onto the sand. It's almost laughable, that he, poisoned and so drunkenly swaying on his feet that he's nauseous, is being guarded by four men. That there's even a suggestion that he can pull a fast one on them with the state he's in.

Like the earth is baked clay, it crunches under Spike’s bandaged feet. He doesn’t wince so much, wavering even at a stand still. Two burly men on either side of him pin his shoulders to keep him upright.

“Would you like some water? You’ll need your strength.” Saul holds out a bottle and Spike wrestles his lips away. “Come now, officer. No poison in this one.”

Spike licks his flaking lips. His chest stutters with intentional, heavy breaths. “I’ll take my chances.”

Saul laughs, a horrible sound. “Suit yourself. Welcome to your home for the foreseeable future. Now, I’m sure a smart man like yourself has heard of a sensory deprivation chamber, how we’ll plug the ears and eyes. It creates a womb-like sensation. A few hours of that, several sessions a day, and your mind will collapse in on itself.”

Saul eyes go dead, flat. “They always do.”

They’ve been steadily prodding Spike forward, around a mess hall type of building and fire pit piled high with the ashes of old shirts and badges and wallet photos…

Spike knows he’s going to die or worse, that he has no cards left to play, no hope or people on his side left to his name. No pride to defend himself with.

At the death knell, those blasphemous words, and the sight of what remnants are left of once intelligent men, something inside of Spike still _snaps_. Reality slams into him harder than the jet.

He’s just been _bought _by someone. Sold and about to be packaged like a prime cut. The thought is unfathomable, an offense to the soul.

He’s never writhed so hard in his life. His feet are everywhere, clipping knees and stomachs and groins. Kicking for all he’s worth.

For Spike knows that even worse than bodily harm and death is losing his mind. Losing that bright spark inside his head that makes each day better and more exciting than the next, the thrill of learning and helping people with the heart he’s only just learning how to use.

“Get him in,” Saul yells. “Quick!”

“I’ve got a sedative in the truck!”

“Hurry—”

“Blasted—”

Spike is a menace with the rush of hysterical strength. He even manages to club one mercenary right across the nose with his shackled hands. Blood spurts onto both of them.

The episode doesn’t reach full capacity, however, and Spike can already feel his poisoned body running out of juice, betraying him, slowing down…

Gasping and wriggling, Spike is no match for six men, even if one has a sling from his own bullet. They subdue him after a minute of fierce combat and though Spike’s pride is too great to plead, he shakes and grips the arms around his neck.

One of the men, huge and teeth rotted, has had quite enough of this pesky officer and his refusal to give up.

He swears, points the rifle straight at Spike’s knee cap, and cocks the hammer—

_BAM!_

The thunder crack is deafening, a bombastic, Levitical crash upon the world. Much louder even than Jules’ rifle at the airport, something so high powered and long range that it’s a detonation.

Spike’s head spins and he wonders dumbly for a moment whether he’ll have hearing damage to go along with the busted knee. After a moment of no pain, he realizes that his assailant's gun never went off at all. 

The man beside him falls in a fouette spiral of red spray along his forehead from a high velocity round, shot with such precision it’s dizzying. The bullet hole in his face is so big that his features are almost unrecognizable. 

Spike whirls around and so do his captors, trying to find the source of the enemy fire. One rests the barrel of a semi-automatic right at Spike’s temple, just in case.

“Go!” Saul roars at his men. “Get inside!”

They turn the corner of the building and—

_BAM!_

Spike jumps.

The man aiming at him crumples too, which isn’t procedure no matter how many ways you dice it. His finger, mercifully, doesn’t twitch and the gun doesn’t go off.

Spike’s had enough of people dying in the last five days, right at his bare toes, so his thready heart rate palpitates through several revolutions of the hop skip cycle before he calms enough to look around.

And there, in a half circle before the desensitization chamber, along with multiple agents in bullet proof vests, stand a dozen US and Canadian troops in beige fatigues. Helmets, rifles, boots, and all.

Every last weapon is up and zeroed in on an astonished Saul O’Leary.

Well, almost every weapon.

The lead man, also in fatigues, has his arms resting in a lazy stance on his own rifle stock. Like they’re out for a Sunday walk, no helmet—

Sniper rifle barrel smoking at his feet where it was perched on a few sandbags for stability. It’s too powerful for such close range, and that fact alone speaks to its use for vengeance and not function.

The man is standing now, stance squared but at ease, eyes sharper than a razor blade.

“I thought I’d drop in to visit some old friends and look at what we stumble across.” His cheeky, easy going voice doesn’t even remotely match the horror film tone of all this death. “Did you know that army planes can get you from the east coast to Riyadh in half the time a private jet can?”

The shock bubble breaks at exactly the same time Spike does.

Soldiers close in with barked orders to surrender but absolutely none of it computes. There could be a full production of a Bizet opera being performed in technicolour right now, close and personal, and it wouldn’t filter in any better. There is no sound, no piercing thought process.

At last, finally—_finally—_Spike cries.

All at once, no build up of any kind.

He falls to his knees in the sand and is weeping before his next breath.

He leans back on the sticky, torn flesh of his feet and puts his face to the sky for one excruciating moment of released heartbreak so strong, he wonders if they can hear it on seismographs.

There probably isn’t water for miles upon miles in this wasteland but in this moment Spike feels he can drench it all to soaking for how much his chest bucks with uncontrollable sobs and his wet face drips.

Spike covers it with his bound hands, curling over himself.

There’s a flash of gold through the blur and then Sam is on his knees too.

He pushes close in Spike’s face with compassionate aggression, clasping the shuddering skin of his friend’s neck, and gathers Spike in for the harshest, most gorgeous embrace Spike’s ever been on the receiving end of.

It’s too crushing and uncomfortable and Spike never wants it to end.

Sam’s rigid ‘soldier, on the alert’ lines melt against Spike, and the tech’s ribs knock against Sam in their gunfire panting. He’s crying so hard it’s giving him another nose bleed, staining Sam’s vest. He coughs and _coughs_.

Another soldier, special forces, gently snips away the zip ties and inserts an IV in Spike’s wrist. He wails some more.

Sam grips him harder in response to the sound. So hard it hurts. Tears race along the cigar burn where Sam buries his face.

Spike doesn’t hug back, his whole body limp against Sam. His knuckles drag in the sand, nose mushed against the army canvas that smells of aftershave and sweat and _Sam_.

His friend, voice thick, murmurs things into Spike’s neck that he doesn’t understand. He’s shut down except for the arm around the top of his shoulders and the one holding him secure in the center of his back, hand ending along his ribs.

Sam seems to realize this shock level responsiveness, or lack thereof, after a moment. He pulls back a little and Spike moans in distress—_no_, he thinks._ Please_. He wants to grab at Sam’s sleeve but his limbs won’t cooperate.

Then Sam cards lovingly, more tender than a mother, through Spike’s dusty hair. The hand stays there.

And he tips their foreheads together.

Spike exhales a mess of a breath, the quiet ping of Sam’s pulse loyal and unfailing against his forehead. He closes his eyes. Their breaths mingle in the bare centimeters between them.

This time the words puncture Spike’s world of relief and catharsis:

“We don’t leave our people behind. Not ever. I refuse to go home without you, Spike—because it’s _not_ home without you.”

* * *

Everything gets cotton balled and fuzzy once he’s airlifted away from the Empty Quarter desert to a military base.

Saudi Arabia…Spike hears where he is and though it makes sense, he can’t wrap his head around the geographical jump.

That helicopter ride, Sam on one side and American medic on the other, doors open and wind whipping through Ed’s unzipped sweater, is one Spike never forgets.

Though it’s not protocol, they don’t strap him down to the backboard, not after what he’s been through. Nobody touches him with any kind of restraints.

There are a lot of images he’ll dream about in the coming weeks: the sight of Sam’s burnished hair lit up by the rising desert sun. The medic getting a little teary eyed when he feels the abscesses in Spike’s stomach.

A Canadian flag flapping when they land on the base.

Spike blinks at it for so long that the medic grows concerned, repeating his name, and shines a penlight in his eyes.

Spike is gauzed and re-stitched to high heaven. There’s a babble of voices from Sam and his army buddies, about how agents found Ed before he could be flown out, the Arab man is really a wealthy business tycoon who trades with the States and so a huge FBI cover up and bribing scheme was uncovered.

Everything Almasi threatened Spike with, it was all caught on his cellphone call so he’ll be charged to the fullest extent the UN can manage…and…and…

His stretcher is walked to the medical tent where he and Sam will be staying until Spike is stable enough to fly, and he watches Sam shake hands with his former colleagues. The solemn looks shared. They keep nodding at Sam with barely-concealed pride, that marrow deep honour Sam looks at the team with sometimes. It's an intense and baby blanket soft expression all at once.

Luckily, being on a military base, they are more than prepared to deal with a patient infected with anthrax. Spike is dosed with a huge round of antibiotics.

While it takes effect, he gives his statement in halting whispers to a Human Rights Tribunal investigator and an FBI agent. Their eyes are appalled, their recorders winking at Spike. He takes measured sips of cold water through a straw and not a bottle, thankfully.

Then Sam’s friends all want to meet this crazy, prodigious kid and he gets to chat with an EOD tech. His eyes are wide while Spike swaps stories of land mines, of being blown up inside an office building, an SUV, a garage, the list goes on.

Finally, he drifts off to sleep. The hazy sleep of a land too hot and injuries too fresh. There is no dreaming, only primal emotions scraping with dirty fingernails at the walls of his mind.

It doesn’t last long, and when Spike opens his eyes Sam is still there at the foot of his bed, looking out the tent flaps to a dark night.

Spike sits up, best he can. An oxygen mask has been slipped over his head at some point. Sam’s head is slightly tilted upwards.

Spike spies it too—an endless bank of stars. He’s never, not in all his life, seen so many at one time, like icing sugar spilled by a child's hand. He audibly loses his breath and it fogs the plastic.

Sam turns at the sound. “Hey, hey. You’ve got more drugs in your system than a Rolling Stone. Take it easy.”

Spike reaches out, with desperate fingers that are aching for a taste of home, safety, and Sam can’t deny him, reciprocating with warm fingers around Spike’s elbow to tug him closer.

Then they sit, side by side, at the foot of Spike’s cot. The wind flares, opening the tent even more. They witness the stars in silence, the desert heat, though cooled by the night, still rivaling an Italian summer. Sometimes Spike thinks about the stars, irrationally angry that they resonate and he does not get the privilege of hearing their song. Something so beautiful, so far away and yet so intimately pulsing, a mother's heartbeat. 

A white blip sails horizontally across the dusted sky.

Spike points to it. “‘S the…International Space Station.”

His voice is muffled by the mask.

So is Sam’s, more to do with how his eyes shine. The eyelash-thin film over his bright blue irises reflects a flickering array of stars and planets overhead. It takes a few minutes and costly effort from Spike, but eventually their breathing syncs up in perfect harmony. 

“Spike.”

Spike glances to the side at him. “_Sam. _Thank you.”

“I wasn’t about to lose you.” Sam doesn’t look away but the stars are on his cheeks now too. “Whether it’s an ocean or the threshold of a drug house, we’d cross it for each other.”

Spike squeezes their hands.

For a few minutes, it is enough. Two friends, brothers, stare up at this slice of the universe with their own planets spinning slowly, painstakingly back in orbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ('He falls to his knees in the sand and is weeping before his next breath.' It's a lie. It's me. I'm the one crying while writing this.)
> 
> I had this whole subplot development where Spike really _does_ get brainwashed and the team has to hunt him down, snapping him back to himself, but I couldn't do it. It didn't feel right, for brainwashing is not the point of this story, not the thing that must be made whole in the end. It's about loyalty, trust, not that nothing will go wrong—but that when it does someone is always coming for you.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sorry?” Ed repeats, confused. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
> 
> Spike’s eyes fill. “For leaving you behind and letting you get taken again. It was my fault.”
> 
> Ed immediately stretches out an arm for him but Spike backs up a hair to avoid it.

‘All this time we were waiting for each other,  
All this time I was waiting for you.  
We got all these words, can’t waste them on another—  
So I’m straight in a straight line, running back to you.’

“All This Time” ~ OneRepublic

“They’re coming out!” Dean’s youthful, bright chirp lights up the JFK tarmac. “See? There!”

They’ve been granted ‘special access’ to the smaller, discreet part of this airport. Civilians are not even technically allowed on the ground where planes taxi around them, but staff are compassionate. Agents and journalists from all over the world stand at their backs.

The team hasn’t gone home right away, waiting for Ed and Spike to fly into JFK airport for a final statement to some hot shot officials—they _are _responsible for uncovering one of the biggest FBI frauds in history, after all—and so Spike can be medically cleared as no danger to himself, his immune system, or others before entering his own country.

Greg is known for his politeness, especially out and about when off the job. He’ll assist everything from an old lady with too many groceries to a child’s broken bicycle chain.

At the sight of Ed, gingerly walking down the France-American ambassador’s plane stairs with a head swaddled in bandages—the first time they’ve seen him in over a week—Greg doesn’t even think.

He’s in motion before any of the others can exclaim greetings. All of Greg’s tact is abandoned to physically push a UN nurse aside and wrap Ed up in grateful, rough arms.

Ed absolutely _dissolves_ into the familiar hug, every last practiced muscle uncoiling into the burly immutability of Greg’s love.

They remain there, windblown by the jet engines, grasping at each other with enough strength to bruise. Greg’s hands are buried in the scrubs and Ed’s face is hidden in his friend’s woolly pullover.

When Ed at last steps back, his eyes flash with delighted, tired humour. Greg waits for the quipped deflection, the words to cover up how teary eyed they both are.

Instead, all Ed says is, “I missed you. So much.”

Greg has no comeback or textbook phrase for that. He embraces Ed again for good measure.

There are many more hugs. In fact, for fifteen minutes, in a little, unused terminal, that’s about all they do. Jules even stretches up for a kiss on Ed’s cheek. Dean rushes at ‘uncle’ Ed with arms outstretched. Even Holleran steals one. There are teary declarations of love and thankfulness that he's okay and praise for the fight he put up, right until the end.

“He’s coming?” Ed asks Greg. “It’s today too, right?”

Greg nods, throat working until he can trust his voice. Both men have recovered in separate hospitals overseas for the last forty-eight hours, Ed in Paris and Spike in…

“A joint military task force is flying him in from Saudi Arabia as we speak,” Greg explains. “He’s already given his statement several times and a specialist from the CDC is checking him over right on the plane. So we can fly straight to Pearson, home, whenever you’re ready.”

“Home,” Ed murmurs. He shakes his head, leaning down absently for another embrace from Jules. Then, in an awed tone, “They flew him all the way to the Middle East? How did you find his location before they could wipe him?”

Greg opens his mouth to answer with _that_ particular mind boggling tale, when there’s a clamor at another terminal down the hall, a busier section of the airport.

The sudden eruption of voices and security pushing back journalists and nosy onlookers draws Greg’s steps at once.

The others trail behind him, Holleran, Damien, and Lazlo’s agents coordinating with airport security to contain the crowd. Camera bulbs snap everywhere. UN officials give statements to keep reporters and video cameras busy.

Saul O’Leary is marched inside, cuffed. When Hartford—also in custody—is allowed to approach and speak to him, Saul spits at his feet. They are hustled away from the chaos.

Greg is glad he’s at the front of the hubbub. It grants him a first class seat to watch the instant Ed catches sight of them.

A full military escort files through the door, a huge camouflaged plane visible through the windows. Sam, still in his desert fatigues, linen scarf around his neck, is wheeling one wan and split lipped Michelangelo Scarlatti through the onlookers. He bends down to whisper something in Spike’s ear. Spike nods with a grimace.

Then comes the moment Greg is breathless with anticipation for—

They both look up.

And all the noise goes away.

Spike is too far away, over thirty feet, to hear what he mouths in one quick motion.

But Ed must know, because he breaks into a beaming, toothy smile and fresh tears simultaneously. The convoy stops when Spike jumps to his bandaged feet.

He’s not supposed to be walking, that much is clear when Sam grips a steadying hand in the back of his shirt.

Ed’s shirt.

Spike wears a gifted pair of military combat trousers but the sweater, freshly cleaned, is the same one Greg last saw him in.

Even Sam can’t quite keep up when Spike darts forward. It’s a little stiff and jilted, strides faltering, but not even the people pressing on either side can bar Spike from that weeping face waiting for him.

_Waiting_ might be a lie. Ed runs forward too, wheezy with emotion.

Their faces are a supernova to watch.

Blinding, an agony of fire burning out and disintegrating into something burnished, new, so pulsing with cardinal elements they’re lost in each other’s gravity.

However, just shy of Ed’s reach, Spike halts in his tracks.

Ed’s breathing misses a few beats. “Spike?”

The tech’s eyes are pinched far at the edges, mouth open and panting faintly. His gaze roams over Ed’s face. Greg isn’t sure he’s aware of anything else.

“I’m sorry,” Spike croaks.

“Sorry?” Ed repeats, confused. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

Spike’s eyes fill. “For leaving you behind and letting you get taken again. It was my fault.”

Ed immediately stretches out an arm for him but Spike backs up a hair to avoid it. He won’t let Ed touch him.

Jules takes an aborted step towards him, ever the fighter, but doesn’t tug Spike into their arms like Greg knows she wants to. Physical contact has to be his choice and they all realize this at once, especially after the lack of autonomy he's been granted. Sam looks at his wife but stays at Spike’s side so he’s got some shelter from all the eyes. Worry seeps from everyone in the tight huddle.

“Spike…” Ed wipes at his eyes, for all the good it does. “Spike—you did nothing wrong. You’re not responsible for what they did to us.”

Spike’s lips tremble. “I wasn’t good enough. I failed.”

“Failed, how?”

“My plan, it…” He shakes his head. “It didn’t work. I walked away from you!”

“And saved your life in the process. It’s what I would have ordered you to do anyway.”

Spike exhales a weak sound, features blank but shaking. “It should have been me. _I’m _the one who deserved to get taken.”

“Spike, how could I ever blame you for what happened?” Ed loses his breath, and it quavers on the way out. 

“I'll understand...I'll understand if you don't want...” Spike briefly closes his eyes, fists clenched. “Don't want me on the team anymore.”

“Spike.” Greg watches his friend struggle not to fall apart, and Ed has to say the name a few more times before he wrangles his horror under control. “I couldn't even _do _this job without you.”

Spike wavers, like he wants desperately to believe it but isn't sure he should let himself. 

“You said something to me once.” Ed leans closer but doesn’t make contact. “That to be loved means never keeping score of our deeds or favours to each other.”

“But—”

“No. There is nothing, absolutely _nothing_ to forgive. You hear me? You’re Mike Scarlatti: and that is more than enough for me, for all of us. _You _are more than enough.”

Spike’s face crumples in a messy rush. He reaches forward. “_Ed_.”

Responding to the plea in that tone, Ed lets out a guttural cry of complete anguish, one so strangled by his larynx, coated with catharsis, that it turns Ed’s face red. Greg’s never heard it from his friend before and it pushes the reality home of what an earth-shaking toll this whole experience has taken on both men. The scars that have been prodded and picked at in the last week alone.

Ed sweeps Spike to his chest without a second’s hesitation.

Spike doesn’t move for a moment, then both of his arms reach up to coil around Ed’s neck. Jules ruffles the tech’s hair, Dean joining in with an arm around Spike’s shoulder, Sam clutching Ed’s hand.

It’s an intimate embrace for so public a theater but the world can spin around them in burning circles for how little Greg and the others care.

This is home, no matter what country they’re in. It’s not a place at all.

It’s also a breathtaking contrast to behold: one mentor, Hartford, cold and rejected by his protégé, against the crown jewel of Spike bundled in Ed’s arms.

Greg stares between the two images for a long minute.

Ed’s other hand, the one not around Spike’s back, smooths up and down the thick heath of brunette hair. He rains tears into it. Spike’s eyes are open over Ed’s shoulder and they shed a few of their own before at last meeting Greg’s.

Greg places a hand on his son's cheek, fingers brushed by Ed’s in his self-reassurance that Spike is really here and really alive and really out of those woods.

Spike’s eyes narrow a little with warmth, like a cat when it’s happy.

Greg doesn’t ask, “are you okay?” or “do you know you’re safe now?” or “jumping in front of that plane was the stupidest thing you have ever done—is this part of some grand scheme to send me to an early grave?”

He just thumbs at the bloody skin and smiles. Spike takes a hand off its death curl in Ed’s scrubs and touches the one on his face.

He, surprisingly, gets the first, whispered, words in. “I knew you’d come for me. Always.”

It’s Greg who ends up front page news, sobbing in JFK airport.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed gasps. He jolts awake. “Spike!”
> 
> “Right here, man.” Sam’s arm moves again. Spike has closed his eyes at some point, still mushed into Sam’s shoulder, so he wonders what it signals. Then Ed’s bandaged hand is guided back to its place on Spike’s arm. “See? He’s mostly in one piece. So are you.”

‘There’s a room I need to sit in,  
Surrounded by my favorite view,  
And I need a hand to hold…  
Would it be okay if I came home to you?’

“Home to You” ~ Sigrid

If Spike is honest with himself, he doesn’t remember much of the trip home.

It’s only a two hour flight, maximum, from JFK to Pearson airport, but for some reason it feels like they’re up in the air for a lifetime, a cradle of safety and leaked fears, hands open to let go of all the anxiety.

To happily watch them float up into the clouds and away forever.

The US government bought them all first class tickets, as a thank you and show of good faith that no charges will be pressed, though Jules is flagged and _not _allowed to drive through the border for a while. She’s relieved to hear she didn’t kill anyone. She and Sam have been placed on probation but Greg knows it won’t stick for long once they’re back at the SRU. 

Spike dozes off against Sam’s shoulder and Ed dozes off on his left, against the window.

It doesn’t escape his notice that the team strategically chose these seats so that anyone trying to get at Spike and Ed will have to go through Greg, Sam, and Jules. A diamond point formation executed without a word, seamless, even though they haven't worked together as a unit in almost two years.

Even in sleep, Ed’s right hand doesn’t leave its burrow in Spike’s sleeve. He hasn’t asked for the sweater back and Spike gets the feeling he never will.

Sam, by contrast, is keyed up. He keeps the sewing leg at a minimum for their sake, but his thumbs fly over some slingshot game on his phone.

Jules, seated across from her husband in the aisle, asks him in an aching voice how being back in the sand felt. “Bad memories?”

“Yeah…but it was nice to make some good ones, you know? Saved an innocent life instead of taking it for once.”

Spike tries to listen to their heartfelt conversation but the racing of Sam’s pulse through his shirt, where it meet’s Spike’s nose, and the heat of Ed’s fingers around his wrist lull him.

He phases in and out. Sometimes, between slatted eyelids, it’s Greg crouched in front of them with that broken down, adoring expression. Just watching.

Spike closes his eyes. Opens them. Then it’s the CDC doctor checking his feet and blood pressure.

Close. Open. Dean tucks a double blanket around he and Ed.

Close. Open. Sunshine through the window instead of frosty night black.

Close. Open. Ed’s twitching worsens.

“Hey.” Sam reaches across Spike. The elbow fabric of his fatigues brushes Spike’s cheek in delicate shapes that leaves static-y spots. Sam pitches his voice low. “Ed, you’re having a nightmare. It’s safe now. You can stand down.”

That’s not what Spike would have said to comfort his team leader. But to his astonishment, it works.

Ed gasps. He jolts awake ready for a fight. “Spike!”

“Right here, man.” Sam’s arm moves again. Spike has closed his eyes at some point, still mushed into Sam’s shoulder, so he wonders what it signals. Then Ed’s bandaged hand is guided back to its place on Spike’s arm. “See? He’s mostly in one piece. So are you.”

“Spike,” says Ed again, so barely-there Spike wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t expecting it. Ed’s touch moves upwards, to Spike’s chest of all places. It rises and falls, taking the passenger of Ed’s hand with it. “He saved my life, huh? Interpol found me at the airport before they could take off.”

“Not just with the cellphone trick. He’s a hero,” Sam whispers. “You both are. I’ve read the statistics—most agents never survived past the kidnapping stage. You were the first to escape and get each other out alive.”

Spike is almost asleep, half dreaming about teacups filled with gritty sand, half fixated on the micro pointed sensation of Ed, the weight of his hand, through the blanket. The _real_ smell of him, so much more vibrant than the sweater.

He takes a big breath in, just to feel Ed’s palm float upwards.

There’s a hum in Ed’s chest, so painfully loving, and he rests his own forehead on Spike’s shoulder for a moment. Just a moment.

When it lifts, Ed secures the blanket around Spike once more. Fingers gently tweak Spike’s nose, just like he does to his kids all the time.

Ed never really lets go after the airport, Spike notices. There’s always a fluid contact point somewhere between their bodies.

There’s a _lot _of touch in the coming hours, Spike learns. An endless well of it, even though no one is supposed to be getting too close to him to protect him from getting sick. Like the stars in a desert sky, Spike finds constellations of touch everywhere he turns.

Patterns of bright, pulsing light that guide him home. Vibrating at frequencies that battle the lingering phantoms in his mind. Twinkling in colours so different from blood red and sand beige and bandage white.

Effervescent and calm all at once.

Like the hands that meet them when they land, Sophie completely ignoring the doctor's advice and hugging him after kissing her husband silly. The Lanes’ arms are all over each other, their children squished between their bodies, Izzy on Clark’s hip.

Then Spike is pulled in to the Lane family dog pile. 

Wordy clasps the back of his neck. Shelley kisses his cheek.

Lilly’s little hand takes his, her other holding a piece of yellow construction paper—“I drew you the maple tree in our backyard! Look, it’s even your favourite colour!”—while Winnie has her turn kissing him silly.

Like the hands that carefully lower him in the car after one last visit to the hospital with strict meds, masks, oxygen tanks, and instructions for Greg on what to take and when. It's not exactly textbook procedure to let release a patient from medical care so soon after being poisoned, but after what happened, even doctors understand that a familiar environment is what he needs now more than a sterile hospital room. 

Like the way Sam and Dean hoist Spike, one of his arms each across their shoulders, to alleviate pressure on his feet and carry him into the Parker house.

Crossing the stoop, he and Sam meet each other’s eyes in a single, shared thought and nod.

Like Marina’s smeared makeup and megawatt smile, framing his face with her hands and pecking him on the forehead. Ed who stumbles in behind, his hand still between Spike’s shoulder blades where it’s been for the last three hours.

Spike is plopped on the couch where he instantly—shocker—starts drifting off. More fingers, Jules, slip a cannula into his nose and then pat his stomach.

The hands fade away, though their voices do not. All of them, plus their families, chat in the kitchen, the children running around outside. 

Until only Ed’s hand remains. It’s on his ankle this time, where Ed has taken a seat at Spike’s feet. The washing machine swirl of warmth and safety is intoxicating, better than any lullaby. It's bizarre and no small amount of culture shock, going from desert heat to autumn chill, from arid Arabia to this noisy, urban north.

Spike cracks open an eye. “Hey, Ed?”

“Yeah.” Ed’s on the ready at once, body posture stiff. “You okay? You still in pain?”

Spike shakes his head; the medication, along with this round of antitoxins, took effect the moment he stepped foot outside the hospital. It’s making the world drowsy and a little incoherent.

He just stares at Ed for a few minutes, savouring that he can do so without threat. Eyes blinking, alert, awake. No blood on either of them.

“Spike? You’re scaring me here.”

“Ed.” Spike wiggles his toes to feel the tendons ripple on Ed’s palm. “You’re worth way more than the fifteen million the FBI paid to find your location.”

Ed’s jaw drops.

“If I was a kidnapper,” Spike insists, “I’d ask for more. Like…ten times that, at least.”

Ed stares at Spike as if he’s never seen him before. It starts as a crinkle around his eyes, lips tight, followed up by hitch in his breathing. And then he’s off laughing, bubble popping notes of mirth.

It’s supposed to be a compliment, in Spike’s addled mind, but he joins along, coughing here and there, until Greg comes in to check on their snorting, homely sounds.

When he sees, his eyes go impossibly soft. He just flaps his hand and leaves them to it.

“Crazy as usual,” he says. “You’re definitely going to be okay.”

Spike falls asleep to the delicious first taste of Ed’s laughter in eight days.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even a child’s giggling is not enough to banish the dark look in Ed’s eye.
> 
> Greg feels a pain inside his own chest, those gossamer shapes tangled and frayed. His voice is wafer thin. “Helplessness.”

‘We were born to try,  
To see each other through.  
To know and love ourselves and others well  
Is the most difficult and meaningful  
Work we’ll ever do.’

“Nine” ~ Sleeping At Last

That first week after the dramatic rescue doesn’t feel real.

It happens in technicolour, there to touch, to hold, to hear, to be splattered by, to believe in—but somehow even it is not enough to quell the sensation that started this whole epic in the first place:

The zapping fire inside Greg’s belly, birthed by some preternatural instinct, continues to melt him from the inside out.

He can’t figure out why, no matter how much he tries.

The Parker house transforms into Union Station. At any given moment, there are at least two people bustling around who don’t technically live here. Some days he wakes and Sophie is already there, a chipper good morning offered along with a mug of coffee. 

Whether it’s Jules and Sam with yet another casserole or Wordy and the girls providing noisy cheer (usually in the form of yet more homemade playdough) or Winnie visiting Spike or Dean curled up next to his brother while reading to him from a dog eared Agatha Christie novel, Greg can always count on a nimbus cloud of voices to warm the air when he gets home from work. They're there when he wakes, chasing him into sleep, always someone present to eat with during meal times. 

Greg took a few days off to be there, just to sit with a weak, doped Spike in his shivering on the living room couch and hold him close after so long without being able to do it, but Spike and Ed are handling this much better than he ever expected.

Physically, there’s still a long way to go and both are on leave until doctors clear them. Ed can barely keep his eyes open some days, lights dimmed all through the Lane house. Spike still needs that oxygen tank once in a while, if allergens bother his lungs or someone's cooking steams up the kitchen. Neither one can stay on their feet for very long. 

Psychologically, they seem fine.

None of the textbook symptoms of emotional stress or co-dependency that Greg is looking for pop up. Both men are tired, with some difficulty falling asleep—too many bad memories about waking up without each other, alone—but otherwise mellow and easy going.

So when Ed shows up for the first time in almost ten days, thick sunglasses protecting his sensitive eyes, Greg just rolls with it. Ed still isn’t allowed to drive so Clark trundles in right after him, playing chauffeur.

The team doesn’t even knock anymore. They know they’re family, to just call a greeting and come in.

Sophie and Clark are over almost every day, and Greg has visited Ed at home, sleeping off the concussion, so he’s pleased to see him with more colour, rosy and sharp eyed at the door.

“Eddie.” Greg hugs him, because he can and he’ll never take it for granted again, before ushering him inside. “Want some chocolate tort? Shelley just took it out of the oven.”

“Sounds good.”

Greg leans in with a conspiratorial look. “You’d better get some before Dean. He eats more than Marina and I put together lately.”

“Actually…” Ed’s hands are in his pockets, but the fabric undulates with restless fingers. He takes off the glasses. “Since I’ve been cleared for light exercise, I wondered if you need help working on all those leaves.”

Greg blinks at him, not getting it. “Leaves?”

“In your backyard. They’re taking over.”

A very eloquent thought blossoms on Greg’s tongue, a therapist’s answer to the slate cloud looming in Ed’s equally grey eyes. But then Ed sighs, a long, distant sound like a buoy’s clanging over an empty sea, and Greg just nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

For an hour or so, Ed and Greg rake at the leaves while Sadie tumbles around in them. Sam stands off to one side, taking pictures of his daughter while teaching Lilly how to dribble a soccer ball.

“No Spike around today?” Ed asks.

Greg smiles, faint. It grows wider when Sadie flings herself, best she can since she’s not walking yet, onto their newly made pile. “Winnie drove him to his latest doctor’s appointment. Three _hours_ ago.”

Ed smiles too. “Spur of the moment date night?”

“Probably.”

Greg has to use his cane to shuffle to one spot, set it down, and then rake the surrounding perimeter. Ed’s doing most of the work, so Greg stops and observes for a moment.

“Doing okay, Eddie?”

It’s the same question, asked every day since they got home. Ed hasn’t tired of it, which is very out of character.

Backing this up, Ed just shrugs a little. “At home I was starting to feel a bit…”

“Stir crazy?”

“I was going to say helpless, but sure. That too.” When Ed stops, hands on his own rake, he does so to meet Greg right in the eye. Greg's stomach flip flops, knowing that he has to stay calm to not spook Ed and that stripped down expression. “I didn’t live through what Spike did. I was unconscious for over half of our kidnapping experience and the only thing I struggle with is not being able to protect him. No magical band aids in my kit to fix poison.”

Even a child’s giggling is not enough to banish the dark look in Ed’s eye.

Greg feels a pain inside his own chest, those gossamer shapes tangled and frayed. His voice is wafer thin. “Helplessness.”

Ed gazes off into the gathering dusk, the quiet street. The natural fence of maple trees. The sound of Jules and Wordy’s laughter through the kitchen window.

Like the reverse G-forces of a nose diving plane, Greg senses Ed isn’t seeing any of it, if only for this one, breathless minute.

Sam feels something in the air too, even turned around. He glances over his shoulder at them with a frown. 

“I can’t imagine what that felt like,” says Greg, in nearly a whisper to spare Lilly standing only ten feet away. “Huddled in the woods, being hunted, with only each other for support. I’m so sorry for what happened, Ed. So sorry.” 

Ed shakes his head, but it’s an absent thing.

With a nod at Greg, Sam picks up Sadie and heads back inside. Lilly trails after him, hand in the man’s sleeve. “Come on, Lilly! I bet Jules set aside a piece of that tort for us…”

Both men are quiet while listening to the porch door slide shut. Greg steps closer, hand on Ed’s arm. “Are you having nightmares or flashbacks?”

Ed shakes his head again, this time with more intention. “Not at all. My head hurts too much for dreaming. Not to mention the painkillers they have me on—I haven’t slept so much at one time in my life.”

Instead of elaborating on that, Ed digs out his phone and scrolls through texts. Greg resists the urge to read over his shoulder.

He doesn’t have to, as it turns out. Ed flips the screen around once he finds what he wants:

‘You okay?’

It’s not a text from Ed to anyone, especially since it’s time stamped at two am a few days ago.

It’s from _Spike._

And the subtext in that isn’t casual. It isn’t an emotional ‘okay.’ It’s an _are you still alive and not going to die on me if I turn around _‘okay.’

Ed thumbs down, shows another one. ‘You awake? Sorry, just wanted to check.’

“His room is silent at night,” says Greg in shock. “I assumed he’s like you, dead to the world—he needs it if his body is to keep cooperating with the antibiotics. Has he done this every night?”

“Almost.” Ed’s lips tighten in an anxious expression. “He’s a miracle, Greg. We both are, I suppose, when you stack it all up. Statistics say he shouldn’t have survived the anthrax poisoning.”

That one is a curve ball for a second. Greg replies after a beat. “I know, Ed. I read the UN’s final report too. Not to mention the news, which has loved you both for ten days straight. Especially now that they’ve caught Almasi, when he tried to cross the Saudi border yesterday. He can’t hurt you or Spike ever again.”

Ed’s eyes match his lips now. Hard, fretting, with serrated whorls of something cold. “Yet even more statistics say Sam’s hail Mary rescue mission to an uninhabited _desert_ was impossible.”

“But it worked,” says Greg, trying to banish something of the weighted, wild look on Ed’s face. “It worked and you’re both okay. Spike is…he’s pulling into the driveway with Winnie right now, see? Not dead.”

“I know,” says Ed this time, soft and muted. “And I’m going to make sure he stays that way.”

Greg’s heart positively _wrings_ with aching sympathy at Ed’s words. The fire inside him reaches a fever pitch, almost rivaling the painful sensation of when he watched Spike being taken again and flown away.

“You sound just like Hartford, Ed, and as such I think you’re missing the point.”

Ed’s eyes hone in surprise.

Some of Greg’s own vehemence seeps through when he musters every last inch of the silver thread inside his chest and lets it wrap around his vocal chords— 

“_We’re_ going to make sure he, and you, stay that way. All of us.”


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s over, Spike, you know that?” Greg doesn’t say it in that light, jostling way of bantering friends. He says it with a furrowed brow, ducking to catch Spike’s eye when he tries to look away. “_Do you_ know that?”
> 
> Spike doesn’t answer, but in a way his body does for him. Trembling, china skinned, and raining. His own personal storm.

‘I’ve been sleepwalking,  
Been wandering all night,  
Trying to take what’s lost and broke  
And make it right.’

“Burning House” ~ Cam

Noise is a part of their family’s ambiance, as it turns out.

Not in the past, but after what happened they like to stick closer together. It’s the tapestry of their new normal: the sounds of Jules on the phone with UN lawyers and Marina humming along to the radio in the kitchen. The burbled snore duet of Wordy and Sadie on the couch. The tap of Greg’s cane where he putters down the hall.

Thanks to all of this, when Spike jerks awake from lurid images of guns, a basement in the desert sand, and water bottles filled with blood, he relaxes almost immediately. Just listening to this symphony of normal.

_You’re at home. This is Greg’s house, not the basement. _

Nor does he stir when yet another sound gets added to the mix.

The muted slide of sock feet on carpet grows in volume until, suddenly, it stops.

Spike exhales in little pants, clavicle slick with sweat. He can still feel the ghostly sensation of blood surging up his trachea.

He doesn’t move when the covers of his bed are lifted and a soapy smelling hand, fresh from the shower, pats around his nasal cannula to make sure it’s working. A whisked tut brings a faint grin to his face.

Then a body settles gingerly down next to him and tugs the blankets, including the heated one, back up over them.

Spike doesn’t open his eyes once, hoping for that holy grail: the swirling, heavy dark of beckoning sleep. So far he hasn’t been too successful.

But he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who it is.

Especially not when a soft hand interlaces their fingers together near Spike’s chest where he is turned on his right side.

“You’re okay,” a voice whispers, apparently worried about whatever sound Spike cried out, thinking he’s still asleep and in distress. “You’re safe and I’m here.”

Spike’s puffing slows down, but it’s still fast enough to punch his chest at their plaited hands. He coughs once and that feels better.

The figure is facing him on his side too, breaths blending in ethereal currents between their bodies. Bandage meets bandage when their palms touch with such gentleness that Spike’s eyes prickle behind his closed lids.

Their woven hands are a perfect match.

They breathe together in the guest bedroom’s dim, accompanied by the oxygen tank’s hiss and the feel of each heartbeat, one cherry bomb pops and the other molasses drips, snuggled close enough to unwind the last of the Spike’s tension.

Spike gets a hold of his already muddled emotions, only to hear sniffles.

“It was just a nightmare, Dean.” He keeps his voice low. “I’m not actively dying anymore and if Jules has her way, I’ll be overweight in no time. You hear? I’m still alive.”

A head rolls forward to rest on Spike’s. “I know.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you that night, for pointing a gun at you.” Spike leans back to kiss the hair tickling his forehead.

“It was really…really awful, Spike. There was so much blood.”

Tears pound at the door of Spike’s eyelids. He holds his brother close and wishes, just for a fleeting, thorn puncturing the rose petal moment, that he’d known this boy since childhood. That they’d actually gotten to grow up together.

Spike rarely lets himself indulge in such fantasies, a much more ‘in the now’ personality, but this one time there’s no stopping it. He’s gone through Greg’s albums and Dean’s baby photos, of course. Those infamous pictures of toddler Dean wearing Greg’s dress shoes.

Here and now, though…it’s not the same. It isn’t enough.

Being an only child, Spike never got to teach someone how to ride a bike, to play wrestle, how to talk to girls, the right way to get his father’s attention, how to tie a tie…

A whole lifetime they’ll never get to live. All they can do now is move forward together, to weave their hopes just like their hands.

“I’m sorry,” Spike whispers again, understanding what Dean is actually trying to say. He runs a quick hand through Dean’s hair. “I didn’t want to leave you behind and I won’t do it again. Okay? I promise. I’ll never abandon you.”

In the ensuing silence, Dean’s hand clenches, clammy around his bandage. He tugs Spike’s hand closer to his own chest, cuddling it tight with both of his own like a favourite teddy bear.

“I’m just glad you’re alive. I thought we’d lost you for good when the plane took off.”

Spike lays there, each pulse beat hollow in his chest. He has to suppress a shudder, now wide awake. “…Me too.”

* * *

Day time is the easiest thing in the world.

It’s a relief, distracted at every turn by side hugs and pieces of cake pressed into his hands (not strictly kosher to his recovery but Sam just laughs, “Don’t tell Jules.”) and feeling so safe amongst this nest of familiar people that he’ll fall asleep virtually anywhere.

The couch. The stairs. Head pillowed on the kitchen table. The floor, that one time he bent down to play with Sadie and dozed off on her playmat, curled up like a cat. Many photos were taken of that incident, he found out after, posted in a shared group chat.

Day time is homey and velvet and belly full.

Night time, well…

That first night they drove back from the airport, Ed woke Spike to say a hushed, teary goodbye before leaving with his family. Spike handled it with flying colours, going so far as to comfort the sniper with a bleary smile and a bad joke.

And when the Lane family truck drove away, Spike…Spike stood at the window without moving, long after they disappeared down the street.

Night time is for sweating, alone, in the dark. Night time is for clenched hands and shaking on top of his mattress.

Night time is swallowing until his body remembers that it’s not being chased, just because Ed isn’t present within his eye line. Night time is for memories of harsh hands, dead bodies at his feet, and being alone in the desert.

Nights are for texts.

Ed is faithful about replying and hearing the _zzzhhng zzzhhng _vibration of an incoming text—‘I’m doing great, Spike. Although I still argue I’m not Gerard. Maybe I can be Poole?’—allows Spike to close his eyes. Release the strain in his jaw.

About two weeks in, after that evening picnic with Winnie on the dock and deep kisses that speak of missed time, Spike opens his eyes to find he’s left his bedroom without even noticing.

Sometimes this happens, his mind lost for a minute. His healing feet, bandages now thin enough to finally fit inside socks and shoes, continue to carry him forward without consulting his brain.

It’s the dead of night. Even Dean snores in the next room over.

Or at least…he normally does.

Spike blinks and instead of the Parkers’ guest bedroom he’s standing on the porch. Chilly October wind sears at his already pale skin.

_I didn’t even feel myself open the door._

There are no stars this time. Not in urban Toronto and certainly not with rainy clouds overhead. The air tastes like ozone and rotting mulch.

Wind rustles his hair too. Thick, fondant folds of chocolate brunette stained with sweat.

Spike glides down the deck steps as if in a dream. His bed definitely isn’t good for such things. He doesn’t have nightmares, so long as he sleeps during the day.

When his socked foot hits the grass—

_CrrrrUNCH._

Spike glances down at a few leaves Ed missed in the clean up. Blown about without attachment. Nothing to tether them down.

And when Spike takes another step forward, then another one, still one more, he travels back in time. It’s indelible, this smell of leaves and maple and dank earth. The feeling of a frigid night, quiet, against his back.

Spike closes his eyes. He breathes out a higher pitched sound that he’s ever so glad is lost to the wind.

“Spike?”

The tech only turns half way at the voice. And he keeps his eyes on the leaves. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t.” Greg crunch-crunches across the lawn to stand at Spike’s side. Spike can tell by his loose hand on the cane that he wants to touch Spike but isn’t sure he should. “Call it a gut instinct. I saw your bed empty and wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Spike sighs again. “I’m fine. Trouble falling asleep, just like I told the doc.”

Greg hums. He’s in a plaid bathrobe, free hand deep in his pocket, and rubber soled slippers. His shoulders hunch up near his ears to preserve some body heat.

“So you came for a walk?”

“Didn’t really mean to,” Spike confesses. He waves a hand. “Just…woke up here.”

Greg huddles even closer. “I thought you weren’t sleeping.”

Spike crinkles his toes, for the hollow pleasure of feeling the leaves dissolve under his feet. They’re so intangible, so breakable. “Did you know leaves are actually a great source of insulation?”

Something in Greg’s eyes shutters. He limps around to face Spike head on, voice lamb’s wool soft. “Yeah, I did know that.”

“And…and camouflage too.”

Greg’s face twists with pity. “Spike—”

“They smell like home, no matter where you are.” Spike blinks very fast. “Just like this.”

Greg removes his hand from its flannel burrow, so the fingers are warm when they make contact with Spike’s cheek. “Even in the rural woods of Pennsylvania.”

Spike nods in reply, swallows some more for all the good it does.

It starts to rain, even though the storm hasn’t reached their yard yet.

A few drops catch on Greg’s calloused thumb. He rumbles a fond note in his chest. “That’s because home will never be a place.”

Spike’s chest hitches again.

“It’s over, Spike, you know that?” Greg doesn’t say it in that light, jostling way of bantering friends. He says it with a furrowed brow, ducking to catch Spike’s eye when he tries to look away. “_Do you _know that?”

Spike doesn’t answer, but in a way his body does for him. Trembling, china skinned, and raining. His own personal storm.

Greg tugs him inside when it actually starts to thunder, just before they both get soaked. He stops in the kitchen with a puff of ragged air. There’s a funny shake in his limbs.

Spike doesn’t fight it when Greg pulls him in. Greg holds him close, running a strong, firm hand over Spike’s head. It’s warm, safe, so very unlike the bracing and manly slaps his biological father used to embrace him with.

He watches a flash of chain lightning over Greg’s shoulder. It highlights the leaves for a microcosmic second. They tumble about in the wind, dispersed to other yards and storm drains. Disposable.

Dread prickles along his sternum.

_Just because it’s over_, Spike thinks, _doesn’t mean it can’t happen again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Spike give me so many! Feelings!!


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Wordy possessed any hope of this really truly just being a bathroom run, it’s shattered when Jules meets him halfway up the steps, wearing an alarmed look.
> 
> “He shoved right past me,” she whispers. “I’ve never seen him like that, Wordy.”

‘I don’t know the end,  
It’s never how I thought.  
Is it real or pretend?  
Are we free or are we not?’

“Follow You Down” ~ Lights

“That’s a foul.”

“There are no fouls in Little Big Planet. I made an OddSock monster and that’s final.”

“It almost ate me!”

“Maybe yours is just slow.”

“That was a foul,” Spike interjects. “I totally saw it.”

Wordy, entering the living room with his afternoon mug of tea, snorts. “Spike, your eyes have been closed this whole time.”

He carefully steps over Clark and Dean’s legs, stretched out where they sit on either side of Spike, to claim the empty lazy boy recliner. He gratefully sinks into it, cane propped on one arm.

Spike cracks open an eye just to wink at him. “Maybe I can tell a video game foul by sound alone. Huh, Wordy? Ever think about that?”

“Maybe _I _have more important things to do than harass college kids.”

Dean flicks Spike’s forehead. “Don’t listen to him, Sonic. We love that you’re here and not playing.”

“Yeah,” Clark chimes in. “It gives us a chance to actually win sometimes. Jules was bad enough.”

“But you did not win this round.” Dean’s glare at Clark is mutinous. “Because that was a foul.”

Spike is quiet for a moment. Wordy wonders if he’s dropped off to sleep again, like he’s been doing with absolutely no notice each time. He fell asleep with Wordy mid-conversation just yesterday.

Then he says, eyes still closed—“Lest we forget, I can still sabotage your game without ever touching a controller.”

Clark and Dean whip around in a chorused move to throw Spike an aghast look. Spike smiles, like he can see this behind his eyelids.

“How is that even possible?” Clark asks, incredulous. Then he rolls his eyes at himself. “Never mind. I don’t want to find out.”

“Is that a promise of no more video game based nicknames?” Spike quirks a brow.

Dean unpauses their round with an angelic smile. “I concede defeat…Darth Maul.”

Spike’s eyes snap open. “Are you kidding me?”

Clark and Dean high five each other across Spike while he groans. Wordy laughs at their antics, the noisy banter and bright sounds from the game. Jules already whooped them at Halo.

When Sam offered, they didn’t even bother, switching the game to something a little less…violent. Especially when Spike joined them.

Still, the two boys throw insults at each other that keep Wordy more entertained than the game.

Dean’s a little stiff with the controller, thanks to bandages still eclipsing the back of his hands, but Clark has slowed his own playing to let his friend keep up. It’s sweet and concerning, especially coupled with the fact Clark has become Dean’s shadow. He hovers constantly with a worried expression, ready at the first sign of pain to run and grab Dean some Tylenol. 

They’re interrupted by a sound Wordy has come to know even in his sleep. He looks up when he hears it out of sheer instinct.

_Pat! Pat! Pat!_

“Cwark! Cwark!”

Minikin feet come rip roaring into the living room in a one-minded quest.

Clark has developed the near superhuman ability to pick up his little sister between his calves and keep playing at the same time.

When Izzy trots towards the couch, Clark doesn’t even look away from the screen. His legs gently close around Izzy’s ribs and retract, sweeping her closer to his spot.

She giggles. “Cwark! Dean!”

Clark juggles her closer to his lap to let her hop on. “It’s so unfair that she can say _your_ name right and not her own brother’s.”

Spike lifts her the rest of the way up. “Better than mine. I’m—”

“Missr Fiss-It!” Izzy actually gasps, a short, tinsel sound, when she notices him. She crawls over Clark to sit on Spike’s lap, one elbow clamped around her giraffe. “‘Pike!”

Spike blinks at her with a widening smile and no small amount of amazement. “Well, that’s a first. You said my name! Good job!”

“‘Pike!” Izzy says again in a loud squeak. Spike chuckles and it sets Izzy off.

Wordy goes secretly a tad soft, watching the cozy scene. The girl’s itty bitty fingers bunch in Spike’s sweater and his arm keeps her from falling off.

“He got a…a inj’ry.”

“There’s a big word.” Spike looks to Clark for help, then Wordy, the only father in the room and fluent speaker of toddler. “Does she mean me?”

Wordy leans forward and points. “I think she means her friend. When you were…away…she wanted you to sew up the hole.”

“Ah. Can I have a look, Iz?”

Izzy relinquishes her stuffie before he finishes asking. Spike’s nimble fingers swivel the giraffe around with a serious expression. When he finds the hole and its protrusion of batting, he measures it with his index finger.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm,” Izzy parrots.

Even Dean can’t hold in a surprised bark of laughter at that one. Clark shakes his head and musses with Izzy’s curls. He looks exasperated, his own, almost matching curls swishing with the gesture, but Wordy spies affection in his eyes.

Clark is all bark and no bite, complaining about Izzy every time the wind blows and the first one to scoop her up when he’s been away.

“Luckily,” says Spike, “this is an easy fix.”

Izzy braces herself on Spike’s arm while he leans forward to retrieve Marina’s mini sewing kit on the coffee table.

“Not a bad owwie, ‘Pike?”

“Nope.” Spike cuts off a line of brown thread with his teeth. “A minor injury, don’t worry.”

It takes some coordinating for Spike to wrangle Izzy and thread the needle at the same time. It’s impressive to watch, though he nearly drops the giraffe.

Wordy laughs. “Need some help?”

Before Spike can answer, Izzy taps his arm and looks at Wordy. “He gonna fiss it, Unca Wordy.”

“He sure is,” says Wordy. With Izzy’s attention diverted, Spike finishes knotting the thread. “Have you finally thought of a name for your giraffe? You’ve named all your other toys.”

“Mmm…” Izzy thinks about this, watching Spike make the first puncture into the giraffe’s foot. “Don’ hurt him, ‘Pike.”

There’s a round of stifled snickering from everyone. Clark squeezes her little toes.

“I won’t,” Spike assures her with a solemn look. He feathers the needle out and back in. “Your friend won’t feel a thing.”

Dean makes an impressed face while his avatar pummels Clark off a tree. “Never lie to a subject.”

Wordy rolls his eyes at the same time Jules laughs from the kitchen. She pokes her head in briefly to ‘aww’ at the scene around a mouthful of bagel before Clark tosses a bobbin at her.

“No Halo cheaters allowed in this room!”

His throw misses by a mile but she laughs again.

“Maybe I’m just a better sniper than you, Clark. Nobody likes a sore loser.”

“This is called a ladder stitch,” Spike explains over the repartee. “See? Perfect for fabric.”

Izzy dutifully gets close to see the coordinating back and forth suturing. It’s calming to watch the measured weave of Spike’s needle. Tiniest Lane though she may be, Izzy’s studied, intense gaze matches Ed to a fault.

Something occurs to her. “Like climbin’ a twee.”

Spike’s eyes widen. “Exactly like that! Nice one, Iz. Your dad uses the ladder to climb up and trim branches?”

“Yeah!” Izzy nods with enthusiasm, forcing Dean to push at her back so she doesn’t spill onto his lap. “Ladder!”

“Where is Ed anyway?” asks Wordy.

Clark sighs. “They offered to let him take the requalifying test today.”

“Really?” Spike pauses. “So soon? It’s only been three weeks since we came back.”

“Only for light, in-house work, if he passes at all,” says Clark. “The concussion went down faster than they expected. All that’s left to deal with are some headaches and fatigue. They want him to stay sharp.”

“Oh.” Spike takes on a glazed, absent quality. His eyes fix on the far wall without seeing it, hands still in his lap.

“‘Pike?” Izzy frowns, reaching to touch Spike’s chin. “He’s on da outside.”

This sentence is confusing enough for Spike to refocus, a little, and look down at the giraffe’s foot.

Sure enough, where the hand stitching is almost finished but not quite, a puff of batting sticks out, clinging to the other side of the giraffe’s leg.

Spike stares at it. This spill out of polyester and unfinished suturing and open wounds.

“‘Pike?”

Wordy stiffens, half rising in his seat. He feels it too. “Spike, bud?”

Spike blinks. His face goes from blank to grinning—a plastic, wonky grin—in two seconds flat. “Hey, Iz. I’m just going to use the bathroom for a second, okay? I’ll finish that when I come back.”

“Okay.” Izzy shuffles onto Clark’s lap instead. Giraffe back safely in her chubby hands. “Thanks, ‘Pike!”

Spike briefly touches her head and then he wobbles off the couch and up the stairs. The two boys are still playing but the minute Spike’s out of earshot, they pause it.

Dean’s eyes are huge.

“I’ve got this,” says Wordy, standing. “I’ll check.”

If he possessed any hope of this really truly just being a bathroom run, it’s shattered when Jules meets him halfway up the steps, wearing an alarmed look.

“He shoved right past me,” she whispers. “I’ve never seen him like that, Wordy.”

They make it to the upstairs bathroom, the one at the end of the hall. The door is closed. There comes the distant, barely there sounds of retching but by the time Jules knocks on the door, it’s quiet.

She keeps her tone low, private. “Spike, doing okay in there?”

No answer.

Wordy reaches around her and tries the door knob. Locked.

They share a moment of panicked eye contact.

This doesn’t track, based on Spike’s daylight hours behaviour so far of sleeping and joking around, in that order. They wait a hair-raising ten minutes, but everything is silent, on both sides of the door.

“We just want to make sure you’re not passed out or in any distress,” Jules pushes. “Fair warning—if you’re unconscious, Spike, I’m breaking this door down.”

The sound of the toilet flushing is almost ironic, such a pert, Spike thing to do that it keeps Jules hushed until Greg hobbles his way up too. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know,” says Wordy. “He ran up here and locked himself in. Threw up but now he won’t open the door.”

Something comes on in Greg’s face. “Call Ed.”

“What?”

Greg fights a taut line around his eyes. “This is about Ed. Call him.”

Jules does, looking confused the whole time.

Wordy squints at his former team leader. “Boss?”

“If this is about what I think it is…” Greg’s brows dive into an anguished expression. “Then we can’t fix it. Only Ed can.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I mean it,” says Ed, confidence in his voice. “I don’t think you’re struggling with that night, with _this_, whatsoever. I realized that the instant Jules called me.”
> 
> Spike’s eyes grow stormy. His voice comes out a rasp. “Then what am I struggling with? I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

‘For surely I know, if I flee here tonight  
That I’d be alone, a singular fright,  
And I’m sure that I’d crumble and crease in the weight—  
It’s safe in your arms, in your arms I will stay.’

“Safe Haven” ~ Royal Wood

It’s been quiet for a while now, which suits Spike and his throbbing temples just fine.

He sits with his back to the tub, knees drawn too tight to his chest, just like in that cell. He hasn’t turned on the light but it doesn’t matter. His head is bowed into his knees, arms curled so tightly around them they’re white.

There are no tears. No shaking. No whimpering sobs from his mouth like that night on the lawn.

Spike feels foolish, more than anything. That he should struggle with something so hard to name and so bullseye obvious, all at once.

This is level one trauma ordinance, and it should be much easier to compartmentalize than some of the other atrocities he’s faced.

He’s not haunted by blindfolds or vans or wealthy Arabs or even the prospect of almost being shoved into a desensitization chamber. No triggers so black and white. They appear in his nightmares but to consciously think about them, they’re smaller than his logic. His fear isn’t hijacked by their memories.

No, Spike struggles with _leaves_.

Spike sits there on the floor, cold, thick throated, and struggles with irrational thoughts of that hellish, still night in the woods.

He’s so wrapped up in his turmoil that he misses the melodic, slowly spoken words at first. They’re tender, broad strokes, and Spike isn’t used to hearing them from that particular voice.

Then comes a sound he knows much better.

The lock on Greg’s bathroom door is brand new, but it’s still your average deadbolt. There’s the mousey clicks of a tension wrench and a rake pick hitting all nine tumblers in the lock. Spike can pinpoint the exact second it gives, even though no one opens the door right away.

Someone’s knuckles brush the wood. “Hey…I’m coming in, Spike.”

Because the door is so new, its hinges don’t squeak. Though Spike _does_ hear the latch when someone closes the door again. The flick of the light switch.

The _pad pad_ of treaded shoes trying to approach softly.

Then silence.

Spike doesn’t move an inch. He doesn’t care who’s standing in front of him. He doesn’t care that he’s holed himself up in the bathroom for the last forty minutes. It’s selfish, but he just needs to feel…to know…he needs…

“There’s the one and only Barry Allen.”

By the time Spike’s body twitches in surprise, Ed already has a hand on his back. It doesn’t stop there, bumping Spike forward with enough force to bring his head up.

Ed doesn’t sit beside him, squished against the towel rack.

Instead, with one deft move, he gets behind Spike and bundles him into his arms, against his chest. He takes great care not to step on Spike’s socked toes with his boots.

Spike sits ramrod tense in shock.

Ed, just like that night in the gulley, doesn’t look one bit self conscious about the whole thing. He doesn’t push Spike to talk or berate him for scaring pretty much everyone downstairs.

He just sits there, chin propped on Spike’s shoulder, hands securely around him.

Spike blinks.

And Ed’s sweater smells like leaves. Like dead mulch and cologne and…

Spike deflates in an aborted motion before he can censor it, feeling like he might cry with the overflow of relief.

They breathe together, echoing on the cold tile. Ed’s elbows bracket Spike’s ribs and his diaphragm pumps Ed’s folded hands up and down. They stay that way for a long fifteen minutes, at least.

“It was all just too much for a bit, huh?”

Spike swallows. Nods.

“I know how that feels.” Ed’s throat bobs. “Sometimes at home I’ll pull the blanket up over my face, just to block the world out.”

Spike can relate. Though he doesn’t sleep, his eyes will scrunch shut at night, shaking hands over his ears. It’s a futile effort to block out something that’s completely in his mind but it makes him feel better. An itsy bit more in control.

Ed hums a buzzing sound in his chest. “I struggled with being helpless, Spike, while watching you deteriorate from poisoning. That I was incapable of helping you and fixing the problem when a teammate needed me most. But _you_…you’re wrestling with that night in the woods.”

Spike doesn’t nod this time. Doesn’t have to.

“You know what? I don’t think it scares you at all.”

The steady inhalation of oxygen to Spike’s lungs falters. He stares at the closed door and a dip appears between his eyes. For all his brainpower, he can’t figure that one out.

“I mean it,” says Ed, confidence in his voice. “I don’t think you’re struggling with that night, with _this_, whatsoever. I realized that the instant Jules called me.”

Spike’s eyes grow stormy. His voice comes out a rasp. “Then what am I struggling with? I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“Spike…” Ed’s voice shifts to a gentle octave. “Spike, I think that was the one time, in this whole experience, that you felt safe. I think you miss it.”

Spike may as well have just been socked in the jaw. His foggy mind sees stars. “What are you talking about?”

He can’t examine Ed’s face at this angle, but there’s a twist of lips in Spike’s shoulder that speaks of agonized compassion.

“Mike—that was the one time you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I wasn’t going anywhere. That you could close your eyes and I’d still be there when you woke up, however conscious.”

A stinging comes immediately to Spike’s eyes. He presses it back.

Like Ed can sense this, and he probably can, his arms slide from Spike’s stomach to around his chest, fingers kneading into the tech’s shoulders. Spike reaches up to grip Ed’s forearms where they cross.

“Spike, I’m not going to be taken away from you again.”

“I know that,” Spike croaks out.

“Your brain does. But for your body, your automatic reactions and subconscious, it’s going to take some time.”

“…Congratulations on requalifying today.”

“_Spike_, you precious idiot.” Ed says it with warmth, a smile in his voice. “Son, I didn’t take the test. I told them I’m not coming back to work until you are.”

Spike blinks again, and it tastes like salt. Tears slide down his cheeks and onto Ed’s arms. “Why? My recovery is going to take a lot longer than yours. I still can’t seem to put on weight.”

Ed squeezes him. “I know. But I’m not leaving you, whatever form that takes.”

“Ditto. No more hiding your body in the woods.”

This time Ed’s mammoth grin is clearer than a klaxon. “Deal.”

Spike’s crying is silent, but he can’t get it to stop no matter how much he argues within himself. Ed’s grip relaxes, body uncoiling. Spike imagines himself all those years ago, scowling at these men like a cornered animal, now trusting them not only with his life, but his heart. He can't believe he ever thought they'd misuse him.

“Ed?”

Ed leans into him to hear better. “Yeah?”

Spike tries, opens his mouth a few times, before he finds the words he wants. “Saul said that Hartford abandoned him when he was the most vulnerable. It made him bitter, turned him.”

“Yes, it did.”

“But…but Hartford didn’t. He searched for him, on the sly, for over five years, right?”

It is Ed’s turn to be silent. He sighs and the lilt of it against Spike’s back makes his hands tighten around the sniper.

“He loved his pupil,” Spike insists. “Saul’s loss tore Hartford apart, made him lie to us.”

Ed curls around him, grip almost crushing. Spike can’t tell why. There’s a scared catch in Ed’s breathing, the sound matching that night in the woods when Spike asked a very different question.

“That could have been us. What if we lose each other and grow to hate like that?”

“No, Spike,” Ed whispers. “Never. Not in a million years. Know why?”

Spike really doesn’t. He frowns.

Ed strokes just over Spike’s heart. “We triumphed where Hartford didn’t _because_ he tried to do it by himself. He tried to find his protégé without help and eventually gave up because it didn't work. That whole process skewed his morals.”

Spike gets it after a moment. “We had the team.”

“Mmm. And the team asked for help, both from each other and the surrounding authorities. They fought for us, for every single person on the other side of that door. Hartford had just himself.”

“Shouldn’t go it alone?” says Spike, guessing the maxim here.

Ed pulls away enough to look Spike in the eye. “No. We _can’t_ do it by ourselves. It’s not even possible or we’ll self destruct, like Hartford and Saul did.”

Spike moves to hide his face again but Ed won’t let him, bumping his chin back up. There’s a beautiful moment of contact between their hands, a resolution of that torture on the plane. Ed wraps him up in protective arms.

“We’re going to pull through, Spike. Next time you’re struggling, instead of running like Saul did, come to one of us.”

“I’ll…I’ll work on that.” Spike wipes at his nose.

Ed huffs, thawing and fond. “I’ll be here to make sure you do.”

A hesitant knock on the door startles them. Greg cracks it open with a sliver of assessing eyes. He’s holding a glass of water for Spike and a few pain meds. “Everything okay now?”

“You bet,” Ed calls. “Floor’s an ice rink though. Get in here and help me up, Doctor Kimble!”

Greg splutters and only loses a second being thrown by that. “Kimble? I have Tommy Lee Jones’ bossy monologue down pat! I’m so much more of a Gerard!”

* * *

Ed flat out refuses to leave that night.

Clark offers to chauffeur them home but Ed silently shakes his head and his son nods, like he’s already expecting this. He conks out on the couch, Dean curled up on one end, Clark stretched out.

The TV plays on mute, cheery flashes in the dark. Dean has Clark’s ankles cuddled in his arm and they’re both completely fast asleep.

Checking up on them, Ed smiles. These kids will be the death of him one day, and he’ll be thanking them for it all the while. He marvels, again, that the two boys have become so close in such a short time, after spending almost ten years apart. They got on like a house on fire, even as children.

He has illustrious plans about badgering Spike to bed as well, maybe sitting with him so he feels safe enough to do so, but when he pops back into the kitchen, sometime around nine, it’s to see Spike at the table. Izzy is dozing against his chest.

Spike stares at the giraffe sandwiched between them, the batting still sticking out. At his listless eyes, though calmer than before, Ed’s chest winches.

_He figured out how to rescue us all by himself. _The fact will never get easier to digest. How little Ed really did to help. _He was _alone_ for so much of our abduction and we nearly lost his mind. Sam saved him by a thread._

Just thinking about this truth is like Napalm, eating away at the space inside his lungs.

“Hey.” Ed keeps his voice soft to avoid frightening Spike. “I’m too hyped up to sleep and I’m guessing you are too. Fancy a game?”

The tech shifts, blinking back to the present. He watches Ed retrieve a deck of cards from the junk drawer, dog eared and cracked to death.

“I don’t know if I have the brain power for poker,” says Spike, rubbing his eye.

Ed snorts. “And I don’t know if I believe that, not with your track record.”

“You just suggested poker because you and Clark are better at it than us.”

“Darn right, I did.”

Spike rolls his eyes but he’s smiling, so Ed takes the victory. He spies a needle and thread on the table, left abandoned like they were thrown there, and offers them instead. Maybe Spike needs healing more.

He takes the needle, though he’s bright eyed at the sight of it, for some reason. Then, suddenly he says, “How about Count Down Crazy Eights?”

“Really?” Ed’s voice is dry but he starts dealing anyway. “This is a children’s game. I used it to teach Clark math.”

“False.” Spike’s voice goes into lecture mode. “Crazy Eights is a game for all ages and was originally played by soldiers in the 1930s.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Besides, any game can be an adult game if we put stakes on it.”

Ed can’t fight a grin. “Maybe not Mrs. Matheson’s thirty grand, but sure. And no counting cards this time.”

Spike glances around, feathering the needle through the giraffe’s foot. “Loser has to lie and say that Greg’s new lasagna recipe is delicious?”

“Deal. You’re on.” Ed examines his cards, waiting for Spike to make the first play. He throws down a pick up four, the imp. “Wait a second. Wasn’t _Crazy_ Eights called that because of mentally ill soldiers after the war?”

Spike accepts the lose a turn Jack Ed puts down and shrugs. “Maybe it’s fitting.”

Ed sobers. Izzy shifts in her sleep and the men go quiet, though Spike continues to sew up the rest of the hole.

“Spike…”

Ed’s whisper isn’t a question and it’s not a statement. It’s just his name, just the sheer majesty of him existing in the space of this quaint kitchen. Just like they’re all designed, as people and family, to take up space and splash colour upon the world.

To be human means there’s no greater thing they’ll ever accomplish than to exist and enjoy life.

The tech’s movements slow down. “Sometimes I’m sad, Ed.”

“I know, because I’m in the same boat. We’re both getting poor at hiding it, huh?”

“Maybe that’s fitting too.”

Spike looks at him, steady eyed. Ten years ago, stoic Ed Lane would have glanced away or made a gruff joke to deflect the open hearted expression.

Now, Ed just takes Spike’s hand, the one holding his cards, and grasps it. He squeezes once before letting go.

“We’re not here, surrounding you, because you’re supposed to get better or be something for us, Spike. We’re not demanding your ‘old self’ or anything like that.”

Spike says nothing. At some point, his breathing has synced up slightly with Izzy’s, a syncopated rhythm that melts Ed’s gut. He’ll never get tired of watching his kids together.

Ed leans in close. “You’re here because you’re allowed to be sad, as long as you need. Just let yourself feel and be that version of you, even if ‘you’ means tears and heartache and nightmares right now. It’s _okay_, Spike.”

Spike again doesn’t reply. But he finishes the stitches—much better than even Sophie could have done, if Ed’s honest—and breaks off the knot thread with his teeth. There’s something very reverential and sacred about the action. A breaking of thread to heal the metaphorical ones between them.

Then he sets the stuffed animal on the table, displaying the wholeness of it.

And maybe it’s a giraffe or maybe it’s a head wound, maybe it’s running together through a dark forest, maybe it’s a little brother’s tears, maybe it’s the future, maybe it’s a father’s love irritating top government officials around the world until they find his son, maybe it’s all of them, maybe they’re all leaves making up one giant nest pile—

Whatever it is, Ed looks at it, held upright by Spike’s scarred hand, and sees something without blemish.

It’s perfect because it’s _home._

“You know something I never said?”

Ed lays down a pick up _eight _in retaliation. “What’s that?”

“Thank you, Ed.”

“For what?” he asks, watching Spike pick up all his cards.

Spike pins him with a sharp gaze. “I never would have made the trip, surviving, if I’d done it on my own. You carried me, got me breathing again, kept me from a fatal case of hypothermia. I know you felt helpless but I’d be dead without you.”

Ed closes his eyes for a beat. He thinks of so many nights lying awake in the dark, Sophie trying desperately to soothe away the night terrors, Clark knocking on their door in tears because he’s just _so scared _of losing them again, and Ed trying to do everything around the house.

His almost manic caring for Izzy because he can’t be found useless like that again…

None of it works the way he wants it to. It’s all a futile effort.

Ed knows he and Spike will never be able to share that experience in full with anyone else, no matter how hard they try. That no one can ever imagine hard enough to get a handle on how appalling it was, listening to Spike drown from the inside out and Spike hauling him across the ground.

They only have each other for that intricate brand of commiseration.

But right now there are big, coffee brown eyes gazing at him and his daughter is happily sleeping, his son snoring away in the living room, and they’re both fine.

_We’re both fine._

“Two way street,” says Ed, reaching over to stroke Spike’s hair. “I’d be brainwashed in a warzone by now.”

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” Spike whispers. The pretense drops at the same time his cards do. He’s reaching for Ed right when Ed reaches for him. The hug is light, to avoid squishing Izzy, but Spike’s fingers clench tightly in the back of Ed’s shirt. “_Thank you_.”

And Ed vows, right then and there, that he’ll be better.

He won’t be anything like Hartford and his choices, throwing his kid in harm’s way without backup, letting him get taken, giving up when things go south. That so long as Ed has breath in his body, Spike will never end up like Saul.

_Two way street, Spike…two way street…_


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lilly snuggles back up against Spike. But she’s not really watching Ron or his naked mole rat. “Was it scary?”
> 
> “Was what scary?”
> 
> “When the bad guys took you?”
> 
> Wordy tenses, preparing himself to head off this conversation.

‘I am a planet turning round the sun,  
With a brilliant blaze of glory  
It heats everyone.  
  
I am a comet flying through the stars—  
With a trailing tail of mystery,  
I travel very far.’

“Planets” ~ Joseph

The Parker house is, for once, quiet.

Not to say that it isn’t always peaceful, filled with the low volume energy of people bustling fluidly around each other. But often it’s accompanied by children shrieking and pots boiling away and one of Sam’s stories making the guys groan or argue its veracity.

This hush is even more surprising considering all the younger children are here and mostly in one place.

Wordy pauses in drying the dishes, but there still isn’t a peep from the living room, aside from the exaggerated voices of a cartoon playing.

Everyone else is out on the deck or upstairs, asleep at the later hour.

He’s careful to only pick up plastic or metal dishware, in case he drops it—not an isolated incident, sadly. The glasses he leaves to Greg, also drying.

Wordy grimaces while scrubbing away at one of Sadie’s sippy cups.

Greg catches him, of course. “I bet Shelley’s glad to have you around more often now, for stuff like this. Laundry, dishes, cooking. What can’t you do?”

“I’m getting to be quite the trophy husband.” Wordy manages a smile. “Paperwork from home is not as fun as it sounds though.”

“I’ll bet.”

There’s another lull of companionable silence. Wordy watches through the window as Jules glares down her pumpkin like a rude subject. Sam’s pumpkin is a flawless smiley face, complete with a carved out pair of spectacles, while Jules’ is mangled, the beginnings of a bat that went awry.

Greg chuckles. “At least your house isn’t at my level of chaos. I’m just glad Marina enjoys it, that she understands this team and I are a package deal.”

“Happy chaos, Greg. That’s what counts.”

“And I wouldn’t change it for the world. Just don’t tell the others or they’ll start a camp in my kitchen.”

Wordy mimes zipping his lips. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

At the word, that one word alone, Greg’s movements slow to a stand still. He’s holding a spatula, paused in the act of drying out the slits, when he winds down like a music box.

“I still can’t believe it,” Greg whispers. “That this happened at all. That they were abducted and sold and _poisoned_ and…”

Wordy nods. “None of it seems real.”

Both men pause, trying to hear the happy, muted sounds of their children in the living room.

_Ed and Spike are alive—alive!_

Wordy resumes his methodical cleaning of the utensils, his mind on mentors who lost their protégés and crooked FBI agents lying because they were paid by a wealthy man and secret base camps in the desert.

“Greg.” Wordy turns to face him fully. “There’s just one thing I never understood…”

Greg returns to the present with a rustle of the towel. “Just one?”

Wordy laughs a little. “It all feels like a dream, like something that happens to other people.”

“No argument here. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and just sit outside Spike’s door, listening to the sound of him breathing. The fact he’s not choking on it anymore.”

Confusion plows a furrow in Wordy’s brow. “How _did_ you guys track down Spike? There was no cellphone call, like you used to find Ed, and the private plane kept below a certain ceiling to avoid air traffic towers and border laws.”

There’s no technical explanation that can match the sheer pleasure of watching Greg’s face melt into one of such mischief and triumph.

“That,” he says, “was a stroke of complete luck.”

“…Luck. Luck saved Spike’s life?”

Greg slings the towel over his shoulder so he can dig in his pockets. “Luck and a heaping of hubris.”

Before Wordy can tease through that statement, Greg pulls out a grainy photo. It’s got longitude and latitude numbers at the bottom, along with some complicated satellite readings, but there are no people in it. In fact, it’s completely neutral in colour except for one thing.

One very short, very crimson set of footprints.

They stand out because of the bleached grey nature of what looks to be a hidden tarmac.

Like rock candy popping on Wordy’s tongue, the hallowed sensation spreads clear through to his fingertips. “It’s…they’re…”

“A US military satellite took this when a local taxi driver noticed blood on the hem of our tycoon’s robe and told his boss, who then told federal agents in their airports sweep.”

Greg taps the image, looking at it with love in his eyes. “We flew Sam out before this lead, obviously, because we knew they were taking Spike somewhere to the Middle East. We just didn’t know where.”

Wordy runs a hand down his smiling mouth. “But Almasi didn’t realize he’d stepped in a puddle of Spike’s blood.”

“When he got off the plane just before hitting the Saudi border…”

“His sandals left a faint trail.”

“And from there,” Greg finishes, “we contacted Riyadh air traffic controllers and radar operators to find the only plane that didn’t have a registered flight path. It was a mad dash to get Sam there in time.”

For a few minutes, they gaze at the footprints. Seven total. Like stars pointing sailors home in the dark of an open sea.

“How did he not notice?” Wordy wonders aloud.

Greg huffs too. “Spike’s blood probably didn’t show up in the plane’s carpeting when he walked out. Here, in dry earth…”

“His soles wrung out, like a sponge. The sun dried them so fast that blood got baked into this tarmac.”

Greg’s thumb traces the outline of each print, hazy as they are. 

“In a way, Spike’s trick with the blood did work.” Wordy points to his feet. “If not in the woods to lead them away from Ed, then here, to lead us _towards_ him.”

“Like I said…luck and Almasi’s hubris, in no small supply.”

“And you’ve kept it, all this time?” Wordy asks.

Greg doesn’t look away from the photo, and his face hardly changes, but a vivid sheen coats Greg’s eyes. He swallows, trying to banish it, but this doesn’t work.

A flutter of something oozing and affectionate foams in Wordy’s stomach, when he understands.

Quietly, he says, “I keep a copy of my daughters’ baby footprints in my wallet. Shelley’s got their ultrasound photos. Welcome to the club, Greg.”

The first tear falls against the bright and shining sight of Greg grinning, teeth and all. “I’m a little late.”

“Never. It’s never too late.”

“They saved his life.” Greg shakes his head. “I just want to remember…want to honour what he went through and how it saved their lives, by however shoe string a margin.”

Wordy claps his friend’s chest. “We got them back, Greg. And they’re not going anywhere.”

Greg listens, perking up at the growing sound of voices. “That might be his problem at the moment.”

“I’ll go check on them.” Wordy laughs. “Besides, you just don’t want me to eat that last piece of lemon meringue I know you have squirreled away in the fridge.”

“I admit nothing!” Greg calls back.

Wordy waves him off without looking. Everyone knows Greg is the real sweets hog in this household, competing with Dean for the last slice of everything.

When Wordy rounds the corner to the living room, Spike is bundled tight into the corner of the couch.

It’s a new tic since rescued, the fact that Spike sometimes wants to sleep curled up very tightly. Not often, but when he feels alone or vulnerable. They’ll find him, knees tucked up to his chest, huddled on the floor of his room or against a tree or on the landing.

However, he’s already well on his way to stretching back out.

The noise of three little girls around him seems to be doing the trick. They’ve attached themselves to their beloved fireworks man without abandon.

Sadie sits on his feet, on the floor, bouncing along and riveted to yet another episode of _Kim Possible—_Jules’ favourite growing up and a staple of the Braddock household. She hums around a soother.

Izzy is using a plastic My Little Pony hairbrush to stroke her giraffe, plopped across Spike’s knees. Lilly gently reaches out to move Izzy’s elbow away from Spike’s stomach whenever it gets dangerously in range.

He nods gratefully at her.

Lilly sits underneath Spike’s left arm, up against his side. Her eyes are troubled, studying Spike with a touch of uncertainty.

Wordy’s oldest has been the hardest to talk to about the whole ordeal. She’s right on the cusp of being old enough to understand what happened but young enough to be disturbed by even the glossed over truth.

She has as many nightmares as Spike.

Jules and Wordy eventually sat her down and explained that some very bad men took Spike and Ed because they wanted money. Greg and the team got them safely back. The end.

But Lilly is smarter than that.

She knows how tender Spike’s stomach still is. She senses that he struggles when Ed isn’t here.

Wordy watches her and realizes she’s been carrying a lot without telling any of them, except perhaps the man she’s currently leaning on.

Spike’s eyes are half lidded. Closed enough to feel sleepy. Open enough to keep an eye on the children, with two of them being under the age of three.

Sure enough, when Lilly’s fingers briefly touch Spike’s purple cheek, he looks down at her with a sad smile. “I took my medication so I’m not in any pain, Miss Wordsworth. Just like the last time you asked. Don’t worry.”

“Okay.” Lilly snuggles back up against him. But she’s not really watching Ron or his naked mole rat. “Was it scary?”

“Was what scary?”

“When the bad guys took you?”

Wordy tenses, preparing himself to head off this conversation.

“Oh.” Spike watches Sadie for a moment, her on-the-beat bobbing against his toes. She’s going to have Jules’ energy one day. She already _does_ have Jules’ energy. “Not the bad guys, no. But Ed got hurt and that was really scary, yeah.”

“He had to have stitches on his head.”

“Yep, that’s right. It’s called a concussion.”

“Con-cu-ssion.” Lilly tries the word out. “Is that why Uncle Ed is tired all the time? He couldn’t look at screens for a while either.”

Spike squeezes her. “You got it.”

Lilly thinks about this. Long enough that one episode finishes and another one starts.

“Daddy’s hurt too. But he doesn’t need stitches.”

Spike hesitates, then taps Lilly’s knee. “One is a short term injury—like Ed’s cranium—and one is long term, something that’s a lot harder to heal from. But your Dad is fine right now, Lilly. He’s not going anywhere.”

Wordy’s chest is a geyser, shooting up a burst of pain and love and fear. Especially to hear the echo of his own words and the tender way Spike says them.

Izzy saves them all a breakdown by lifting her giraffe so high it bops Spike on the nose. “Look, S…‘pike! He’s better now.”

Spike runs a hand over the velvety fur. “He looks very nice. I especially love his tail. It reminds me of a comet.”

“A comet?” asks Izzy. She and Spike play with the tuft of brown tail hair.

“Yeah,” says Spike. “Kind of like a shooting star.”

Izzy gasps. “Like makin’ a wish!”

“Comets and shooting stars aren’t the same thing,” Lilly protests.

“Sure they are.” Spike gets that excited look in his eye. “Most shooting stars we see, a streak because of the Earth’s curvature and burning up in atmosphere, are actually space debris caught in the orbit of a larger celestial body.”

There’s a quick silence and then Spike seems to realize his audience. “Err…suffice it to say: yes, sometimes they are the same thing.”

Lilly tickles Izzy so that she squeals. “Now every time you move his tail, you can make a wish, Iz.”

Sadie looks up at all this fuss. When Izzy dangles the tail, she plays with it too.

“Comets are important, you know,” says Spike.

Lilly glances at him, eyes clouded. “Why? Aren’t they just rocks?”

“Because…” Spike passes a hand over Sadie’s wispy, butterscotch head. “They say that _we're _important. That we’re not alone and everything in the universe matters, even if it doesn’t last very long. There’s beauty and hope to be found everywhere. Kinda sentimental, but that’s why I like them.”

Lilly sighs a thoughtful, small sound and Spike rubs her shoulder.

“I do you’ hair?”

Spike leans his head back. “My hair? That’s a hard pass, Iz.”

“That means go for it!” Lilly goads.

Izzy burbles something too fast to hear and stands on Spike’s thighs to get at his hair.

Spike rolls his head to squint at Lilly. “I didn’t peg you for an instigator. What would your father say?”

Lilly laughs, even though she doesn’t know what the word means.

Wordy catches her eye and taps his nose. “I’d say I’ve known all along, young lady.”

Spike looks at him in surprise, apparently having no idea he was there. He lightly bats Izzy’s hands away while waving at him. It’s a lost cause, with the blue barrettes Izzy already has started in his bangs.

Lilly and Wordy share a meaningful look and then he scoops her up, sitting beside Spike. “What would you wish for if you saw a shooting star, honey?”

“Umm…” Lilly fidgets with Spike’s watch. “What would you wish for, Spike?”

Spike looks at Izzy ‘styling’ his hair with the plastic brush and Wordy’s faintly shaking hands and the distant sound of Sam laughing while Jules swears at her pumpkin.

He smiles. “I think I already have it.”

Lilly nods in her sage way.

Wordy tugs gently on Izzy’s ponytail like a doorbell. “What’s your wish, Iz?”

She turns to him, finger on her lips, and is about to fall clean onto the floor until Spike’s hand catches her around the middle. “‘S a secret, Unca Wordy.”

“Oh, of course. My bad.” His eyes twinkle, finger to his lips. “Lilly? You’re not going to tell us yours?”

Lilly’s eyes are on the palm Spike has laid flat, where she splays her own against it. The tiger stripe scarring of his skin that will never fade. The mauve, ugly cigar burn on his neck.

“I wish I had a remote,” she says. “One that could pause time. Like this.”

Wordy envelopes her hand, and she rocks forward to kiss his cheek. It strikes him afresh that as the oldest, Lilly will always remember more of him, the reality of his diagnosis, more than his other two daughters. She’ll be both blessed and cursed by that.

“I love you, sweat pea.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

Spike picks up the soother Sadie has lost in her lap and presents it to her, then stretches all the way out so his neck is cradled by the back of the couch.

“You know what, Lilly?” He blows a raspberry in the hand sneaking a bow around his hair. Over Izzy’s giggles, he declares, “I’d love one of those too. You might just be on to something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone spot the hobby (obsessed) astronomer! I adore space facts and studying stellar navigation in my free time, weaving it into my stories' imagery wherever I can.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg’s hand moves so it’s cupping his boy’s face instead. “Hey, Mr. Turtle?”
> 
> Spike’s eyes spark, lips twitching. “Yeah, Clark Kent?”
> 
> “No one’s taking you away from us, from me, ever again. Not ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if anyone is still reading this story but we're almost at the end!

‘So when I’m ready to be bolder  
And my cuts have healed with time,  
Comfort will rest on my shoulder.

Cause they say home is where your heart is set in stone  
Is where you go when you’re alone,  
Is where you go to rest your bones.  
It’s not just where you lay your head,  
It’s not just where you make your bed,  
As long as we’re together, does it matter where we go?’

“Home” ~ Gabrielle Aplin

Jules comes home later that week to see Spike and her husband sprawled on the floor of their living room, the play area where Sadie works on tummy time. And soon—_shudder_—walking.

They’re on their backs, not looking at each other.

Spike is half asleep already.

With the Braddock house so dark, they haven’t noticed Jules yet, a silent watcher in the shadows of the entry way. She can’t make heads or tails of this strange sight.

“It’s cheesy,” Sam is saying. “But it’s true.”

“Well, it’s a nice idea, either way. And thank you, Sam. I just needed to…”

“Remember you’re not stuck in the woods?”

“Something like that.”

Sam lets out a big breath. “I’m glad you came over. If you can’t count on a brother, what’s the point?”

Spike smiles. “They look nice. Although you did get some of the constellations wrong.”

“Thanks for buying them. Sadie loves anything that lights up.”

Jules squints and finally realizes that both men are staring at a slew of cheap, glow in the dark stars taped on the ceiling. Little planets and comet tails are peppered throughout the display. They’re not at full brightness yet, with the lights freshly off, but they’re enough to see her husband give a lazy stretch and a meaningful look at Spike.

“Are you going to do it? Finally?”

“Stop badgering me. You’re worse than Ed and his ‘suit’ comments.”

“You brought it up.”

Spike pokes Sam in the nose. “Maybe I’m regretting that now.”

“I think you should, and soon.” Sam lays back, smug. He tucks one arm underneath his head. “Do I at least get best man duties?”

“What if I was going to ask Dean?”

Sam pins Spike with narrowed eyes. “Are you laying on his floor at ten o’clock on a Saturday night?”

“No…point taken.”

“I didn’t have a best man,” says Sam. “So I’m living vicariously through you.”

“Does this mean I get a reciprocation of that epic bachelor party I threw for you?”

“Eehhh…” Sam pretends to waver. “It’s so much work.”

Spike shoves his shoulder. Sam laughs.

They both hush faster than can be passed off as easy going, and Jules knows the two friends are thinking of that awful, beautiful morning rescue in the desert. She’ll find them making eye contact sometimes, just nodding silently.

Sam woke up crying once and called Spike, both of them just laying there, breathing across the line. That simple sound calmed her husband faster than a lullaby.

“It’ll be the best,” says Sam, quiet.

With a tranquil spark in his eye, Spike blinks up at the planets. “Yeah.”

Jules has to tip toe away so she can blow her nose without them noticing.

* * *

_THUMP._

Greg’s eyes snap open. The noise takes a moment to filter in, faint as it is, short enough that quiet has resumed already. There’s no further ruckus and Greg wonders why this one noise was enough to wake him.

He checks, but Marina is still asleep next to him and Dean returned to live in the dorms for midterms so what…?

Had one of the team stopped over or forgotten something? This doesn’t seem likely, being after two in the morning.

Greg throws on flannel pants and his robe, wary of what he’ll find and thankful for the cane, in the unlikely case of an intruder.

With the windless night and lack of moon, it’s both dark and utterly silent, an eerie combination.

He creeps down the hallway, feeling ridiculous since this is _his_ house, the starlight-speckled carpet rendering his steps soundless.

It takes two passes by the guest room before Greg realizes what’s not right—

Spike’s bed is empty.

_Not again_.

The sheets are rumpled and pulled back, so he’s been here. Greg rushes to check outside, then the living room couch, but he’s nowhere to be found. Not in the bathroom either. He’s done this several nights in the past few weeks, giving them all heart attacks in the process.

Greg’s hand is just hovering over Eddie’s number on speed dial before he puts it together.

The door hinges in the guest bedroom are freshly oiled, so they make no noise when Greg pushes it all the way open and pads inside. It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the murk, but when they do—

A dark crop of hair is visible near the far wall.

Greg rounds the bed and stops, something inside of him dissolving into pixelated, technicolour fragments of love and fear where they’ve tangled up together the past month. They separate at last, and looking at Spike huddled on the floor between the bed and the wall, all Greg feels is deep, calm watered love.

Spike is awake, glancing up at Greg. He averts his eyes, sheepish. “My body…remembers this.”

“I don’t blame it. Curled up on a cold floor is very comfy.” With the help of a shaky hand against the bed, Greg too lowers himself down. He leaves his cane on top of the sheets. “See? Nothing to it.”

Spike’s stretched a hand off his tight knees to hover over Greg, eyes wide at watching him sit down. “You don’t have to do that. This happens sometimes, when I startle awake and am trying to remind myself I'm safe. I’ll be good in a minute, five tops.”

“It’s fine, Spike. You can chill out on the floor as long as you want.”

Some of Spike’s embarrassment and shame eases off his face. Greg drinks in the sight of him, no need for imagining this time. He knows for a fact that this is how he looked that night in the forest, curled up against Ed and finally feeling a moment’s peace.

Greg shifts to settle in, then frowns. There’s something soft and bulky under his left knee, making it hard to get comfortable. After much shuffling, he realizes it’s coming from under the bed.

“Greg, I can explain—”

Greg pulls it out with one victorious tug.

And his jaw drops.

It’s a standard issue SRU ‘go bag,’ black, nylon, with white accents and a thick Kevlar section for storing ammunition when in a hurry.

There are no bullets or guns in it now.

Now, it’s full to bursting with mismatched and faded clothes.

None of them belong to Spike—nor, in fact, do any of the clothes he’s currently wearing. Sam’s jogging pants, Ed’s sweater, Greg’s own T-shirt, the one that went missing over a year ago, Wordy’s scarf…

The smell alone, of all these beloved and familiar people, brings tears to Greg’s eyes before he can huff a sound of wonderment.

“So this is where you’ve been hoarding all of our missing clothes?”

“Yeah…”

Even in the dim interior of this room, Spike’s blush is visible, his knuckles white.

Greg’s eyes tear up for a different reason entirely. He rocks forward to set a hand on Spike’s shoulder.

The heartbeat under Greg’s fingertips, the folds of his calloused and wrinkled palm, is strong and fast. It carries memories of pain and memories of a life lived half alone, in chivvied, sharpened fear, and half liberated.

With family.

One particularly strong pulse hits right at an aged crease next to Greg’s lifeline.

Young against wizened…scared against scared. Cigar burn scar against trigger finger scar. Hope against assurance and faith.

Son against father.

“Hey, Greg?”

Greg squeezes and the heartbeats slow down. “Yeah, Spike?”

Spike doesn’t answer right away, just rubs his nose against the top of the T-shirt and sweater, eyeing Greg, the room, Dean’s soccer ball in the corner, and the world at large.

“We made it home.”

Greg nearly collapses at the weight in his heart, a heated, perfect one. He can only whisper. “_Figlio_. We wouldn’t be here, resting, if you hadn’t.”

Spike makes eye contact with him for the first time since his little retreat to the floor.

“I knew something was wrong with you before I was even informed. Did I mention that?” Greg shakes his head. “I’ve never been so…so _terrified_ as I was in that moment, Spike.”

“That’s why they failed.”

Greg’s brow creases. “Failed? What do you mean?”

Spike’s eyes are easy and fond. He tilts his head so his ear partially rests on Greg’s hand. “The other agents—they had no one. Just themselves. I escaped with such determination because I knew you were coming for me. Saul thought someone was coming for him but no one ever did, not until it was too late.”

Greg’s hand moves so it’s cupping his boy’s face instead. “Hey, Mr. Turtle?”

Spike’s eyes spark, lips twitching. “Yeah, Clark Kent?”

“No one’s taking you away from us, from me, ever again. Not ever.”

Spike’s eyes grow bright but do not spill over, like Greg’s.

Instead, he can’t seem to stop smiling. One of those small, butter yellow ones, packed with so much heat and childlike softness and in-the-moment humour that Greg feels fifty pounds lighter just looking at it. 

Greg isn’t sure how they end up pressed together, but he’s glad for it so he can hear Spike’s soft, shy words.

“I’m so blessed to have you, Greg, the team. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He brings Greg’s hand to rest over his own heart. “My _paparino_.”

Every last cubic centimeter of air inside Greg’s lungs is vacuumed out, all at once, in a huge rush of shock and delight so strong that he rocks backwards. Tears fall instantly, a visceral gut response to that simple, priceless word.

He’d trade everything he owns for that word.

Greg inhales and it audibly shakes. He feels Spike’s heart rippling against his fingers, and is quenched with awe for this adopted boy and his blinding spirit.

There’s one particular article of clothing poking out of the bag, the only one that smells of lilacs and not cologne. Greg takes it out and presses it over Spike’s unruly scruff like a coronation. Instead of a crown, the purple toque has a yellow pom-pom on the top.

While Spike itches at Jules’ woolly hat, Greg takes the opportunity to steal a kiss on his forehead.

“I love you too, Spike.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene at the end is one I've had planned from the very start and it's kind of the emotional climax for me, the reward for all that pain being a term of love that Greg's been waiting to hear for ages.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slow, knowing smile creeps over Spike’s face. “Are they planning something?”
> 
> Winnie’s eyes dart to either side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
> 
> “Winnie?”
> 
> “Maybe.”

‘I’m just a curious speck  
That got caught up in orbit.  
Like a magnet it beckoned  
My metals toward it.’

“Jupiter” ~ Sleeping at Last

It’s the newly instated leader of Team Six, Constable Hernandez, running their drill in the SRU stack house, so as to be an impartial judge of whether all those range and gym hours are paying off.

The fact it’s her and not Jules or Sam or someone else from their family is either a comforting fact or a very bad one.

Spike’s eyes flit between her and Ed, strapping on the last of his gear where they stand in the barren, frosted grass. No snow yet, even this close to December, and it’s a mercy. The sensation of bone-gnawing cold is an ever present companion these days.

Some other rookies are being tested along with them, a catch-all drill for any SRU members needing assessment.

“Did they tell you?” he asks Ed.

“Nope.”

“And not even Leah is here to—”

“Nope.”

“No one?” Spike asks, stunned. “Not even a good luck?”

Ed at last slides on his sunglasses with a wry look for Spike. “I know when they’re plotting something. For being so good at reading people, Greg is the worst at keeping secrets. I’ll weasel it out of him eventually.”

Spike shakes his head. He’s finally moved back into his own apartment, but when he visited Greg’s house this morning, before the big day, no one was there. Not at the Braddocks’ either.

No one has texted him anything about the drill. He even pressed Winnie for details on what they’d be facing today.

Nada.

“My own wife and son are in on it,” says Ed. “We’ll find out when they’re good and ready.”

Despite the fact Spike has been given a clean—if tentative—bill of health from the toxicologist who flew in from the CDC and multiple doctors since then, he feels a roll of nausea. Usually one of the team is here to watch, to have their backs for reassessment.

It’s highly suspect.

“Must be important,” Ed adds, “for them to be absent for this.”

Streamers still line the stack house, from their Halloween bash a few weeks ago. They’d transformed it into a haunted house for charity.

Spike eyes it, wary. “This should be fun.”

Ed smirks. He loads paint balls into the barrel of a rifle clipped to his chest. “Think they left any skeletons in there for us?”

“If they did, I’m shooting them.”

Ed hides his chuckles when Hernandez walks up, clipboard already in her hand. She spends some time with the rookies, their first time through.

Then she stops in front of them. “Are you gentlemen ready?”

“Let’s do this,” says Spike.

It’s a simple formation: enter from opposite sides of the house, clear it out, and meet in the middle. It involves split second decisions on whether to arrest or ‘kill’ any targets they find, that are armed.

Ed is team lead for it, to see if his skills are sharp too. “Mic check.”

Spike and the others murmur into their headsets.

“Alright. Fan out and take your positions.”

Spike does so, glad he’s been directed to a spot, the window, where he can still see Ed about to breach the front door. Ed’s turned slightly at this angle, allowing Spike to see a scar at the very base of his skull.

Small, a stretched sphere—like the whorls on a galaxy.

A head scar is not something Spike thought he would ever have in common with the sniper, but it’s fitting, somehow.

“Get ready to breach!”

Spike brings his own rifle up to eye level and waits for the countdown, just like that day at the tailor’s shop. His heart misses a beat.

“…Two…one…Go!”

“SRU! Guns down!”

Spike’s through the door and it’s familiar, as simple as breathing. He shoots two men with ‘weapons’ and cuffs another three before he even makes it to the burned out kitchen.

There is, indeed, a skeleton. Spike shoots it when one of the rookies isn’t looking.

“We’ve got one hidden in the closet!” comes a younger woman’s call.

“_I’m on it_,” says Ed. “_Stay where you are!_”

“Ed?” Spike lowers his rifle, now that he and some of the others have made it to the center command spot. “You need back up?”

No answer.

Spike’s spine straightens in a strident motion. “Ed? Talk to me.”

_He’s fine. This is a drill. The ‘suspect’ is a member of Team Six and probably just someone having a little fun. No one’s going to grab him. _

Only…Spike holds his breath and a thick line of sweat breaks out along his clavicle. He thinks about steel pipes and hidden alleyways and paint marked vans.

“Stay here,” says Spike to the rookies. “I’m going.”

“That’s not part of the drill,” argues a tall officer.

Ignoring him, Spike runs for the second floor, where Ed was clearing. It’s empty.

There’s a rooftop access, rarely used, and so Spike bolts up those stairs too. “Ed! I’m coming!”

_This cannot be happening. Not again, notagainnotagain—_

When he pushes open the hatch, he runs straight into Ed’s chest, leading their red herring ‘perp,’ Hernandez herself, down the stairs.

Sniper and tech stare at each other. Ed responds viscerally to the frenzy in Spike’s eyes, his other hand reaching out to grip Spike’s shoulder.

“Good job,” says Hernandez, not catching heavy look they exchange. “Most teams never catch my fugitive act!”

Ed returns to the present with a start. “Told you we were ready.”

Hernandez unloops the faux cuffs from around her wrists and shakes their hands. “I’ll have my final report tomorrow, but this is just a formality based on your other test scores. You’re cleared for light fieldwork, gentlemen.”

Once out in open air, relatively alone, Spike doubles over on his knees. A hand pats his back through all the gear.

“I’m fine, Spike.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Ed pulls him up and in for a quick embrace. “My heart was racing too.”

“We’ll be good.”

Ed ruffles the sweaty hair. “Yeah, we’ll be just fine come Monday morning.”

“Is that a promise?” Spike squints up at him.

Deep, melting lines of affection crease Ed’s face. “Every day. If you go out, so do I.”

Spike breathes easier after that.

“There you are!” They turn to see Winnie jogging across the field, in a wool dress as it’s her day off. “How’d it go?”

Spike beams, beholden to _finally _see someone here who remembered their requalification day. He’s felt a bit put out, honestly. “You’re looking at the reinstated members of Team One.”

“That’s amazing!” Winnie hugs them both. With an extra kiss for Spike, of course. “And yet I come bearing a message from Holleran.”

Both men sober at the words and the tone she delivered them in.

“Bad news or good news?” asks Ed.

“I’m not sure.” Winnie bites her lip. “I just popped into the station and he says he has to talk to you in the briefing room.”

Spike’s brows shoot up. “Now?”

“Like, _now_ now. He says it’s urgent and can’t wait. Sorry, guys.”

“Uh oh.” Spike glances at Ed. “We can’t have messed up already. We’ve only been cleared for five minutes.”

Ed shrugs with that half smile. “Maybe he wants to congratulate us too.”

“I can only dream of such luxury,” Spike deadpans. “I’ll catch up in a sec.”

“If I’m dead, tell my wife and kids I love them!”

Spike and Winnie both snort, watching Ed head inside. Winnie slips her hand into Spike’s. She’s warm, glowing with the cooler weather, and yet Spike wonders why she’s so fidgety at his side.

This whole saga has shaken her, obviously, but she’s handled it with grace and fortitude so far, and he’s physically fine now, so what…

A slow, knowing smile creeps over Spike’s face. “Are they planning something?”

Winnie’s eyes dart to either side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Winnie?”

“Maybe.”

He spies a piece of stuffing caught in her curls. “Does it have something to do with homemade food?”

Winnie deflates. “Oh man. I was supposed to keep it as some big secret. Greg’s going to kill me.”

Winnie’s ringlets are frizzy, and they perfectly match the fizz bubbling in Spike’s gut, surging all the way up into his nose. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“You have.” Winnie saunters closer with a sultry look. “But it’s never often enough.”

She presses her lips to his in a dizzying rush of heat, and when she steps back, Spike feels a weight in his pocket. The gravity keeping his feet on the ground.

He blurts it before he can stop himself—“What if you could hear it every day?”

Winnie opens her mouth with that half lip curl, which says she’s about to make a joke. Then she must see something in Spike’s eyes, for her own blow wide.

“First thing in the morning,” says Spike. “At lunch and at supper and at night and before every call and after every call and every time you laugh and at every single wink and…and _always_.”

Winnie’s voice is barely a breath. “Spike…”

He reaches for the planet inside his pocket. Spike takes in a full, huge breath, looking at this archery bow of a woman, ready to launch love and hope and light out into the world with such effortlessness.

When at last he exhales, he’s already down on one knee.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike gazes at him, at these faces that love him with such ferocity.
> 
> An unsteady breath pauses on its way into the tech’s lungs. Then, nodding at Ed, he joins the toast.
> 
> “To being enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robert Frost said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader” and that's certainly been true for me while penning this beast of a fic. It's been such a ride and I'm glad this Thanksgiving scene synced up with the holiday for any south-of-the-border friends. 
> 
> Thank you so much to whoever stuck with and read this story. Peace and love to you all!

‘here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which grows  
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart:

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)’

“I Carry Your Heart With Me” ~ ee cumings (song by Connor J. Koppin)

Greg has a lot of favourite memories.

Dean’s inaugural cry upon entering the world, Spike calling him ‘Greg’ for the first time on that wretched warehouse floor, Marina walking down the aisle towards him with Ed as his best man, watching Ed and Sophie make up after their estranged year.

Spike entering the SRU briefing room, hand in hand with Winnie, going slack jawed and bug eyed, instantly earns a spot on the list.

“Supwise!” calls Izzy.

She throws sunflower petals and yellow confetti at Spike’s face, along with Sadie in her high chair.

The stuff is absolutely _everywhere_, on the table and the floors and even a loose piece caught in Dean’s hair. It’s turned the well lit room into a sunshine space, gleaming with cheer.

A cloud of laughter plumes in the room at Spike’s expression, mirrored on Ed, though he’s entered a few minutes earlier with time to process it all.

Spike’s stare wanders over the briefing table, now packed to buckling with more food than the six of them, plus their families, Leah, and Holleran, will possibly ever eat.

A mammoth turkey summits the center, where the microphone normally sits. Kitschy pumpkin fairy lights hang overhead and on the door frame.

“What’s all this?” Spike finally asks.

“What does it look like?” Greg comes over to rest a hand on their boy’s shoulder. “My house really isn’t equipped to deal with this many people so, well, we thought we’d do Thanksgiving here.”

Ed gestures with his arms. “They hoodwinked us, Spike.”

“We missed celebrating it,” Jules pipes up, “with everything that happened.”

Ed’s eyes shine. He sniffs and then says, to hide it, “This is more of an American Thanksgiving, you know, with how late it is.”

“How fitting,” says Holleran. He hands a manila letter to Spike. “Seeing as our neighbours helped us out so much. Thomas and Ben sent this along with the regular postal service. They say you’re welcome back any time.”

Spike doesn’t read it right away, too busy drinking in these loved faces and heaps of home cooked food. He’s already looking a little red rimmed around the eyes, and this sets him off again. “I don’t know what to say…thank you. _Thank you_.”

Everyone finds their seats, but not before coming over to embrace Spike and Ed. News of their requalification spread before they were even finished, though Spike is on watch until they’re sure his immune system can handle more rigorous field work.

It’s Sophie who spies it first, a glinting shape on Winnie’s hand.

A collective cry goes up. So of course, more hugs and well wishes are exchanged, with even Holleran slapping Spike heartily on the back, wearing a rare, broad smile.

Greg pulls Spike tighter under his arm. “About time.”

And then they’re all crying while dishes are passed around the table.

Greg ends up at the head of it, Spike on one side and Ed on his right. He doesn’t eat right away, just savouring the chatter of happy voices. The discreetly wiped eyes.

Greg hasn’t even touched his plate, but a satiated sensation washes through his gut.

That agitated fire burning inside it, like the curtain on a final act, at last swishes out. In its place rushes a dazzling trail of sweet indolence, the all encompassing gravity of love and loyalty he burns with for these people.

Casual contact points spring up everywhere, fingers in hair and knuckles on cheeks and hands squeezed.

“Here. This calls for a special celebration and I’ve been saving it.” Holleran hands a bottle and corkscrew to Greg. “You do the honours.”

Greg wavers until he sees that it’s non-alcoholic champagne. His eyes burn all over again and he huffs a wet laugh.

Jules sees and reaches in front of Spike to pat his arm. “We’ve got you, boss.”

Greg pops it open and pours into their glasses, with maybe a few of his tears getting lost in them too. The others say nothing about it, for they’re all pulsing with the same joy and hope and relief.

With the utter _novelty_ of having Spike and Ed sitting here, this family alive, whole. Battered but complete.

“To the happy couple.” Sam holds up his glass.

“Hear, hear!”

Everyone clinks glasses and then Spike catches his eye across the table. “To the best man and party thrower.”

Dean ribs Clark. “I thought we were throwing you a bachelor party?”

Greg laughs and Spike rolls his eyes.

“Not in a million years, pal. Sorry.”

Over dessert, more pies and cakes than anyone knows what to do with, Izzy hops off her chair. Her mother and the other women are distracted looking at Winnie’s ring, so she steals the chance to escape and toddle up to Spike.

“S…S’i…_Spike_!”

This catches Ed’s attention. He puts an exaggerated hand over his heart. “Stop the presses—she actually said it! That’s my girl!”

Spike’s name has always been the hardest to say of the team, aside from ‘Juwes.’

It’s a day for milestones.

Izzy holds her arms up in the universal signal and Spike obliges with a laugh, scooping her onto his lap. The little girl’s chest puffs when she looks at Spike and Greg to make sure they heard it too.

“Good job, Iz.” Spike cants his head when she hands him her giraffe with a proud, gap toothed grin. “Is this for me?”

“Named him, Spike.”

Spike’s eyes light up. He chews another mouthful of gingerbread and speaks around it. “By what moniker should we call this esteemed gentleman?”

“Comet! Cause he’s impowtent like us.”

Greg doesn’t understand the significance of this at all, but Spike must. His eyes immediately fill up, close to leaking over before he wrestles it back, swallowing. Wordy’s shiny eyed too, one hand over his mouth.

“Oh yeah? That’s a…that’s a great name.” Spike kisses her fuzzy head. “Did you and Comet finally make a wish?”

“Yep!” Izzy’s sticky palm whaps the table. She looks around at the adults watching her, then points to her father sitting directly across. “Came true.”

Ed takes her tiny hand.

Spike leans down so he’s sure she hears his next words. “Did you wish for Papa to be rescued?”

Izzy’s face twists into one of confusion. “No, Spike. Wish f…for you and Papa…t’ come home and smile. Togever.”

Spike and Ed stop dead, staring at each other. Brown on blue.

Greg has heard the official report, has had more late night chats to debrief with Ed about what happened than either would probably care to recall. The gritty details about every time Ed passed out and how Spike was audibly dying from the inside out.

But then a tear sneaks down to Ed’s chin and the millstone of their gazes—trust, remembered fear, devotion and honour, agony, love—bull rams into Greg’s chest for the first time.

The six members of their family look at each other, having drawn into a closer, on top of each other circle without even noticing. Six celestial planets in the pint sized cosmos of this board room.

This time, Ed and Spike aren’t imagined by Greg’s mind. This time, their world is aligned.

Then Wordy holds up his glass. He stills his tremoring long enough to keep it aloft while meeting each person in the eye. “To their safe return.”

Jules takes her husband’s hand. “To always making time for each other.”

“And never leaving someone behind,” Sam adds.

Ed doesn’t take his trickling eyes off Spike, Izzy dozing off in her food coma against his chest. Ed too lifts his glass. “To family.”

“To the best bunch of rambunctious rug rats a guy could ask for,” says Greg. They share a bout of sniffling, wry chuckles. He raises his cup. “And all the second chances we’ve given each other.”

There’s a hush and then, by mutual consensus, everyone looks to Spike before drinking. His jaw is working, back and forth in a futile fight against the overwhelmed tears looming in his own eyes.

Greg doesn’t even realize he has a hand on Spike’s wrist until it shifts in response. He rubs a circle on it with his thumb.

Spike gazes at him, at these faces that love him with such ferocity.

An unsteady breath pauses on its way into the tech’s lungs. Then, nodding at Ed, he joins the toast.

“To being enough.”

They clink glasses, bells ringing in proclamation of their words and an untouched future before them.

Spike’s wet cheeks lift in a small smile, so genuine it’s pure electricity. “To this second, chosen home—wherever it takes us.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written August - November 2019.


End file.
